


Friends... with Nightmares

by Manniness



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Developing Relationship, District 12, F/M, Family Issues, Katniss POV, No Plot/Plotless, POV First Person, Peeta POV, everlark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-02-28 16:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 68,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13275165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/Manniness
Summary: Sequel to Courage and SacrificePeeta and Katniss return to Twelve as victors of the 74th Annual Hunger Games knowing that President Snow holds the fate of their loved ones in his hands.  The only way forward is together, but is it real or not real?Note: This is a study of how Peeta and Katniss grow together in Twelve (all events take place before the Victory Tour -- don't expect a plot because there isn't one).  I personally feel that Suzanne Collins got it totally right when she wrote how Katniss and Peeta withdraw from each other and the world to lick their wounds after the Games, but this thing happened so I'm sharing it.





	1. Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Courage and Sacrifice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/676209) by [Manniness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/Manniness). 



> WARNINGS:  
> * descriptions of canon-compliant/canon-consistent violence and gore (such as injuries sustained in the arena)  
> * physical and verbal abuse of a minor (i.e., Peeta's relationship with his mother)  
> * hormonal moments (because, like, Peeta is a teenage dude after all)

 

**Peeta's POV**

 

I’d never seen so many happy people in Twelve before.  Never in my life.  Not even during the Harvest Festival, which is pretty much the biggest event of the whole year.  That we voluntarily participate in, anyway.

I look out at the square in front of the Justice Building, Katniss’ hand held tightly in mine as we stand on the stage, and feel a bemused grin pull at my mouth.  There are so many smiles.  I suppose I could count them all if I gave it an effort, but I’ll surely never sketch them all.

The last time I’d stood upon this stage, I’d been so sure that my sketching days were over… but they’re not.

I’m not really sure what I’m going to do with myself.

But that is a problem for another day.  Today, at least, has been covered.  Effie has given us a schedule, which she is determined we not fall behind on, and we stick to the script Haymitch had dictated to us over breakfast.

“When in doubt, thank whoever it is for their _generous support,”_ Haymitch had grouched, eyeing the marmalade jar on the table.

Katniss had oh-so-casually picked up her butter knife and twirled it meaningfully between her fingers.  I’d nearly choked on my hot chocolate.

“And, whatever you do,” our mentor had continued on an exasperated sigh, “don’t take anything at face value.  You aren’t going home.  There is no home left.  Trust no one.”

“Except each other,” I’d interjected, collecting the preserves and passing them to Haymitch.

He’d given me a guarded look.  Shrugging one shoulder, he’d allowed, “That’s your call, kid.”

My call.  Right.  So, no pressure.

I smile to the assembled crowd, wave, and give my brief victory speech.  Katniss nearly crushes my fingers as she woodenly recites hers.  God, she really does suck at this public stuff.  The familiar faces or the fact that we’re standing up here in broad daylight is really doing a number on her.  She’d managed the interview with Caesar the other night so much better.  Maybe because she’d already spoken to the man?  Maybe because the audience in the Capitol had been a horde of indistinct faces?

Well, regardless.  I do my part with damage control.

Lifting our joined hands, I give her knuckles a kiss and meet Katniss’ startled gaze.  When I smile, her lips twitch and… yes, there we go.  She’s smiling to the crowd again, waving.  I hold up our hands in triumph and her failed speech fades to little more than a memory.  I doubt it’ll be aired tonight.  But, just in case, I remind myself to give them something a little more, um, newsworthy to broadcast.

So we smile and we wave.  Then Haymitch brings my family forward as Effie escorts the Everdeens up through the crowd.  I make sure to let go of Katniss’ hand so she doesn’t get hauled to the ground when Duff mauls me and then Baxter picks me up and promptly puts me in a headlock.  I hate being the shortest.  It sucks.

I punch him in the belly and he lets me go.  We grin.  This is Baxter’s version of a _Welcome back, Peety._   It’s not pretty, but then again neither is he.

Effie is totally affronted by the display with my brothers and for that reason alone I have to enjoy it.  I’m sure I’m a mess.  My prep team is probably moaning in their silk hankies.  Oh well.  What my hair looks like now is the least of my concerns, because I’m only halfway through my family reunion.

I meet my mother’s gaze and force myself to keep smiling for the cameras.  She sticks out her arms and impatiently gestures me closer.  I don’t really have a choice what with the whole country watching, so I comply.  I honestly cannot remember the last time she’d given me a hug, so it’s awkward as hell.  I pat her on the back and endure her uncompromising silence.

“I thought about you a lot while I was away,” I offer quietly.  I’m a victor now so, things are different, right?  Haymitch had told us not to take anything for granted.  I guess my mother’s disappointment could be one of those.

She sniffs scornfully.  “Clearly it wasn’t enough,” she hisses in my ear.  “Your behavior was inexcusable.”

My heart sinks, shreds, and settles somewhere in my guts.  I guess some things are never going to change.

In any event, I figure that the obligatory time spent in each other’s company has been met.  When I shift away, she lets me go.

“Dad!” I call out and my grin is as genuine as his is.

My dad has never been very open with his feelings, so I expect a pat on the shoulder or something equally reserved and manly.  He pulls me into a bear hug.  I choke on my surprise as his arms compress my ribs.  Shit.  “Miss me?” I wheeze.

“You’ve no idea, Peet.  No idea how proud I am of you.”

Oh, God.  I think I’m going to cry.  My mother’s icy fury and my dad’s heartwarming sincerity bombard my composure mercilessly.  I can’t deal with this in turns.  I just… can’t.

“Thanks,” I say thickly, my gaze quickly seeking out a distraction, an anchor, something to balance me.  I end up looking at Katniss.  She’s got her sister wrapped up in her arms.  Prim’s head is held against her shoulder and Katniss slowly pets her braids.  They both stand in the circle of their mother’s arms and Mrs. Everdeen looks completely lucid and supportive, everything a loving mother should be.

She’s speaking happily with a second woman who I think is Mrs. Hawthorne.  Yes, it must be because those are the four Hawthorne children clustered around her.  The youngest three surge forward to join in the group hug with Katniss and Prim.  Gale hangs back, grinning.  When he reaches out to tug on a lock of Katniss’ hair, she swats his hand away and rolls her eyes.

She drawls sarcastically, “Yes, Gale.  Your cousin Katniss is a girl.  Who knew.”

_Cousin?_

What the hell?

“Don’t take anything at face value,” Haymitch had said.  I’m starting to comprehend the scope of that advice.

Portia appears at my elbow and I quickly introduce her to my family.  “You’re in good hands, Dad,” I reassure him.  “Portia’s the best.  You’ll steal the show tonight once she’s done with you.”

I feel a little bad for him and my brothers as my prep team and stylist lead them into the Justice Building for their makeovers.  Little do they know how easily they’re getting off.  I’d gotten the full Capitol body polish and I may never recover from the trauma.  I just hope my stylists survive their encounter with my mother.

I glimpse Katniss’ mother and sister being herded into the structure by Cinna with her prep team in tow.

Haymitch steers Katniss in my direction and Effie shows us the way to the next item on the itinerary: the parcels.

Katniss and I spend the next few hours distributing packs of food and supplies.  The peacekeepers maintain some semblance of order while Katniss hands one person after another their food parcels.  I smile and offer the box of dry goods, which contains things like soap, hand towels, shoe repair kits, sewing implements, and whatever else.  I know this isn’t much.  It isn’t meant to be.  These things are inconsequential in the long run.  They’re only meant as a treat, meant to last the week, or perhaps the month… until the next Parcel Day.  This is how the Capitol keeps us dependent on them totally, utterly, completely.  This is how they keep us in poverty while they get their eyebrows dyed and their fingernails lasered with cute patterns.

There are moments when I hate the Capitol so much I have to consciously keep my teeth together lest I just start roaring.

Listening to the sound of Katniss’ voice helps.  As more and more people congratulate her on winning the Games or thank her for the food she gives them, her acceptance becomes more and more rehearsed until she’s fielding them as smoothly as I’ve been doing.

By the time the last person is all set, I am completely exhausted.  It doesn’t help that I’d gotten almost no rest on the train last night.  Every time I’d fallen asleep, I’d dream myself back in the Stockyard.  Portia would be zipping me up in my jacket, and then I’d step into the tube.  The door would slide shut and I’d suddenly remember something I’d forgotten – I’d forgotten to tell Katniss that I love her – and, in my dream, this had somehow been a matter of life or death.  I would beat my fists against the glass, but instead of sending me up to the arena, the Gamemakers dragged me down into a tunnel as dark as the mines and I could hear the snarls of the muttations getting louder and louder—

At which point I’d wake up, sweating and gasping and certain that I’d never sleep again.  But, eventually I’d doze off and then it would start all over again from the very beginning.  Over and over and over.

So yeah.  Sleep was a fail last night.

“Come along, now!” Effie chirps, tip-tapping her way into the Justice Building.  Katniss shuffles along with me, our hands clasped again although I can’t recall exactly when that had happened.  “We’ve got just the thing to perk you two up!  You’ve got a big, big, big evening ahead!”

“Not before we take a big, big, big _nap,”_  I snark on behalf of both Katniss and myself.

Katniss snorts softly, earning a reproving look from Effie at the rude sound.  “That was funny,” she mutters at me and then requests with a tired smile, “Remind me to laugh later.”

I breathe out a chuckle.  “Sure thing.”

We’re handed over to our prep teams and I have no idea what Katniss’ put her through, but mine actually gives me an injection of something to wake me up and make my skin a little less grey and lifeless.  I guess I’d been looking a bit undead.

I can’t complain, though, when I meet up with Katniss at the top of the stairs that lead down into the main reception hall.  She is perfection in the black sheath Cinna had designed for her.  With every movement, faint oranges and reds glow across the fabric, like embers.

“Wow,” I say stupidly.  I’d say that shot of whatever had made me temporarily dumb, but I always turn into an idiot when Katniss looks stunning.  Cold hard fact, there.

I don’t even catch myself before I reach out and pet the end of her braid between my fingers.  Her hair has been arranged in her usual style – falling over her right shoulder – but there are softly-hued, color-shifting ribbons entwined with the strands.  She’s mesmerizing.  I hope I don’t have to actually do any talking tonight.  It’s going to be impossible to take my eyes off of her.

This is confirmed when I realize that her dress only has one shoulder strap, which reaches over her left shoulder and crosses just under the notch at the base of her neck and then tucks beneath her opposite arm, revealing her bare back.  This final, jolting revelation is made when I place my hand at her waist while we wait at the top of the stairs.  My mind goes blank as my palm meets completely smooth, warm skin.  If I hadn’t still been using my cane, I would have toppled right down the steps.

I think I gasp.  My fingers twitch against her absolutely bare lower back and she must see the look that comes over my face: pure, male stupefaction.

“You okay?” she checks.  Effie’s long-winded introduction echoes up from the reception hall below.  There’s supposed to be some kind of signal when they’re ready for us to make our entrance.  I couldn’t care less.

“Not really, no,” I admit.

“Is it your leg?”

My leg?  I have legs?  “Uh, no.  Your dress is…” _…killing me._   “…uh…”

Katniss huffs.  “Distracting, I know.  This is Cinna’s idea of giving us a break.”  She gives me an evaluating look.  “Your suit’s the same.”

Oh no, it isn’t.  My suit has fabric that covers me from neck to ankle.

Katniss brushes her hand over my jacket sleeve and I see the faint orange and red ripples move along the weave.  “People will be so busy watching the embers, they won’t bother us.”

“Really?”  Is that the strategy?  Dazzle them with our pretty clothes?

“Well, I’m sure they’ll still be annoying as hell,” she grumbles and, in that particular moment, I can see her exhaustion beneath the glow of her flawless skin, “but they won’t notice when we don’t answer their questions.”

“Yeah?”

“But I don’t think it’s going to work,” she predicts darkly.

“Uh, I dunno about that.”  It’s certainly working on me.  “Give it a chance.  You might be surprised.”

At the bottom of the stairs, Effie finishes our introduction and Haymitch irritably gestures us to get our asses down there.  Katniss reaches for my hand – the one still trembling and possibly sweating against the small of her warm, smooth, _bare_  back – and tugs it further around to her side where she interlaces our fingers against her waist.  The action nudges her hip against mine as she takes her first step.  

Oh, sweet God yes what do I have to do to stop this moment for all time?

It doesn’t occur to me until we’ve reached the final step that Katniss had been trying to support me on our way down the stairs without being completely obvious about it.  But it does occur to me and I… well, is it getting a bit old for me to keep bringing up the fact that I love her?  Because I do.  A lot.  More with every passing minute.

Before she can slide out of my grasp, I rub my thumb against the dress fabric over her hip and lean in to give her a quick kiss on her temple.  She looks at me.  “Thanks,” I murmur.

She nods just barely, her lips curving into a small smile as Effie bustles us along, presenting us to one important official after another.  I expect Katniss to insist on putting some distance between us, but she doesn’t.  In fact, after every hand she shakes, I offer her my elbow… and she takes it.  Every time.

With this kind of inspiration, I’m not going to have any problem whatsoever with showing the Capitol a pair of teenagers so in love with each other they can’t think straight.

Dinner is a blur.  I vaguely register that Katniss’ mother and sister are the picture of elegance at the table to our left and my family is looking ridiculous, awkward, uncomfortable, and distant, respectively, at the table to our right.  God, if Bax doesn’t stop grinning and winking for the cameras, I will not be responsible for my actions.

“I don’t remember your oldest brother being so, um…” Katniss offers quietly at some point during the main course.

“Lame?” I finish.

She snorts back a bark of laughter.  Effie glares at us from across the table.  Haymitch regards his beer with a sneer of disappointment.  Apparently, there isn’t any hard liquor on the menu tonight.

Once the dessert dishes have been cleared away, Mayor Undersee gives a long, dry speech, during which I – perhaps juvenilely – play thumb war with Katniss below the tabletop.  I still can’t figure out how she can win so often.  I add it to my list of things to ask her.

We dutifully applaud when the man finally wraps up his remarks and then, from the far corner of the hall, someone begins to play a piano.  I eye the space at the center of the room with suspicion.  As one pair of eyes after another focuses on Katniss and me, I’m pretty sure what that space is supposed to be used for.  

I glance at Haymitch, who looks ready to mutiny, and then at Effie, who gives me a bright grin and a nod of encouragement.

Hell.  Well, I guess this would be the thing to fill that awkward broadcast void where Katniss’ painfully dull recitation of her homecoming speech would have gone.

I clear my throat and offer Katniss my hand, palm up, hovering it above the table for everyone to see.  I pray she doesn’t shoot me down.  “Would you dance with me, Katniss?”

She blinks at me, startled.  The moment I see panic enter her eyes at the thought of going out there in front of everyone, I add softly but beseechingly, “Please?”

I know that her first reaction is to say no – or to _shout_  it, more like – but what she does next just goes to show how damn strong she is: she takes a deep breath and nods.  

I just about leap out of my chair so I can help her with hers.  She takes my offered arm again and we slowly make our way past the arrangement of dinner tables toward the center of the dance floor.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she confides on a breath.

“It’ll be okay,” I hedge just as quietly.  “With my leg, we can’t get too wild and crazy, right?”

She chuckles and then bites back a smile.  “That wasn’t funny.”

“Oh!” I recall with panache.  “You told me to remind you to laugh.  From earlier.”

This time, when she laughs, she doesn’t try to stop herself.  We make it to the center of the dance floor and I step up to her, taking her right hand in my left and resting both over my heart.  Her other hand slides warmly onto my shoulder and mine settles on her waist.  Okay.  So far so good.

“Do you wanna lead?” I inquire solicitously.

“What?  No!” she grits out.

“Okay, then.  I guess I’ll do it.”

“Do you even know how?”  Ah, so she finally thought to ask.

I grin broadly.  “Nope.  Never danced like this before.”

“Oh, my God, Peeta—!”

I love her growls.  Laughing softly, I tilt my forehead against hers and tease, “How about this?  I’ll try it for a bit and, if I completely suck at it, you can take over.”

She gives me an incredulous glare.

I add, “And, if I step on your toes, you can break mine.”

I also love the sound of her soft, breathy laughter.  The humor does wonders for her tension.  I can feel her muscles unlock from beneath my hand and I decide that now is as good a time as any to attempt this.  I slide my hand over the dress fabric until my palm is reflecting the heat from her skin.  Our bodies are close, but still not quite touching.  When I step to the side, turning her slightly in my arms, she moves with me and I let out a breath in relief.

We can do this.  Together, we can do this.

“Don’t look at them,” I coach when her chin starts to drift away from mine.  “Look at me, or close your eyes, and trust me,” I breathe into her ear.  Another layer of tension melts from her body.

It suddenly hits me that I am standing in the middle of a crowded room dancing with Katniss Everdeen.

Oh.  Wow.

Three weeks ago, not even my wildest dreams had featured a scenario like this.  She leans into me – relying on me – and lets me lead even though I make mistakes and lose the beat.  Katniss will probably never be the best dancer in the district but neither will I, so we fit.  Sometimes we bump into each other clumsily, which inevitably results in startled eye contact and apologetic smiles.

I eventually notice that we aren’t the only ones making asses of themselves.  When I see Haymitch and Mrs. Everdeen performing an unenthusiastic waltz, I almost forget to move my feet.  I angle my head in their direction and turn Katniss so she can see them.

“Oh, my God.”

“Yeah.  Haymitch can dance.  Who knew.”

She laughs.  I’m still basking in the glow of her amusement when she taps my shoulder and points out another couple.  It’s Duff and Prim.

I close my gaping mouth.  “Whoa.  I wonder whose idea that was.”

“Prim’s.”  Katniss sounds both resigned and amused.

“Well, she’d better behave herself,” I mutter.  God knows Duff is a sucker for co-conspiracy.  More than once, his apologies and excuses have started out with: “But it seemed like a good idea at the time…”  Poor schmuck.

Katniss barks out another helpless laugh, dropping her forehead to my shoulder.  “Then we are in big, big, big _trouble!”_ she coughs into my smoldering jacket.

“No!”  I am scandalized.  “Primrose?  Primrose _Everdeen?”_

“Don’t be so shocked.  It’s always the quiet ones.”

“Present company included?” I flirt.

Katniss snorts softly.  “Hardly.”

We dance until Katniss confesses that her feet hurt, but actually I think she’d just noticed my increasing discomfort.  My leg has started to ache and my back muscles are beginning to throb from the stress of trying to compensate for only having feeling in one foot.  I still don’t trust my prosthetic leg not to fold under me and, despite the warnings from the Capitol doctors not to do so, I’ve been trying to put as little of my weight on it as possible.

I sit down at our table with a happy sigh.  Chairs, yes, thank you for your humble existence.  Best invention since buttocks, knees, and feet.

Scooting closer, I drape my arm over the back of Katniss’ chair.  I know I look like proprietary asshole, but this is what idiot boys do when they’re in love, right?  Katniss gives me a look that could be a silent warning before she tucks herself into the curve of my torso.  I know it’s all an act, and I silently damn the Capitol for it.

To distract myself from just _how_  enjoyable it is to have Katniss all to myself, act or no, I turn my attention to the dance floor.  Katniss follows my example.

We watch the brave couples out there, spying Baxter and Madge Undersee cutting it up at one point, and I wonder if those winks and leers had been for the cameras or the mayor’s daughter.  Now there’s a disturbing thought.

We also speculate on the attendees to pass the time.

“I’m pretty sure Mr. Stanfield wears a wig,” I tell her quietly.

“That’s definitely a wig,” she concurs.  “But where did he get the hair from?”

It does look pretty, um… unnatural.  “You really wanna know?”

“Uh, no.  Never mind.”

It’s not long before Effie comes to collect us for our long-awaited round of farewells.  We stop to answer a few inane questions posed by the news reporter who’d been covering tonight’s dinner.  It seems to take forever, but finally we’re sliding into the backseat of the car we’d ridden in from the train station earlier.  Haymitch joins us, squeezing in beside me as Effie plops daintily into the front seat.

“Onward to your rewards,” he sneers.  “Don’t forget to be overjoyed by the generosity of the Capitol.”

“Right,” I say, resisting the urge to rub the bridge of my nose.  I think the shot of whatever that my prep team had given me is starting to wear off.  The Victors Village isn’t far but I almost doze off during the short ride.  It doesn’t help that Katniss is so warm pressed up against my side.  I have no idea how I’m ever going to get a good night’s sleep again all on my own.

The car begins to slow and I force my eyes open.  Katniss is looking equally drowsy beside me.  “What time is it?” I ask our mentor.  My wardrobe hadn’t included a timepiece.

Haymitch grunts.  “Time for the Panem nightly news and you two are the scoop.  Say cheese.”  He leans forward to address Katniss, “The car’ll go back and pick up your mom and sister, sweetheart.  Make sure you give them the ten-cent tour or Effie will do it for you.”

And, from the tone of his voice, that would be a very regretful occurrence.

She argues, “What about Peeta’s family?”

“They’ll be along.”

“Good luck with that,” I tell him, imagining my mother’s reaction to all this hoopla.  She’d hardly been the picture of enthusiasm at the banquet tonight.

“Don’t need luck when I’ve got threats and blackmail.  Now get out and address your adoring fans.”

Frowning slightly at Haymitch’s tone, I reach around Katniss to open the door on her side and then I nudge her out ahead of me.  The lights from the cameras are blinding.  My headache flares.  My leg aches.  My back throbs.  I just want to crawl into a hole and pull it in after me.

The interviewer from the Capitol launches into the first of what will no doubt be dozens of invasive and insensitive questions.  Katniss cringes into my side and I curl an arm around her.  My smile is charming and my voice is steady as I thank the crew for waiting.  I’d much rather break their precious cameras, bodily toss each of them into the car and send them back to the Capitol, express mail.

But I can’t because it’s show time.

 


	2. Victors Village

 

**Peeta's POV**

 

I wait outside on the front porch of the house that is now mine as Katniss leads her mother and sister into the one next door.  Effie trips along, nattering happily with the interviewer.  Their wigs almost match.  The camera crew follows behind, filming the big reveal for the whole damn country to see.  God forbid the Capitol not be given credit for their overwhelming and utterly patronizing charity.  Er, I mean _generosity._

“Tell me they eventually give up and stay the hell away,” I grate out, indulging in a moment to push the heel of my hand into my temple.  The pressure doesn’t do much for my headache except distract me from it.

Haymitch’s laugh is dry and sarcastic in the extreme.  “But they’ve only just gotten started!  Don’t tell me you’re getting tired of ‘em already.  Why, just think of all the long walks to town you’ll take with your sweetheart that they’ll be around to film, every ‘Good morning’ you two exchange from your front porches, and let’s not forget all those goodnight kisses you two are gonna—”

“Damn it,” I complain.  “I’m going to end up snapping someone’s neck.”

Haymitch wordlessly offers me the flask from his jacket pocket.  For a moment, I seriously contemplate accepting it, but then the headlights of the car flash around the bend in the drive.  My family will be here momentarily.  Inebriation will have to wait for another time.  I sigh.

“Shouldn’t you be next door with Katniss?” I prod him.

“Hm?  Nah.  They’ll have that camera lens focused on little blondie.  And Katniss will do her big-sister-and-family-provider thing.  She’ll be fine.  Don’t need much supervision to make sure they get an over-protective older sister.  Especially with Trinkets tap dancing her way to district-escort-of-the-year.”

“Tell me they don’t actually give out an award for that,” I mutter but I’m not really paying attention to Haymitch’s answer.  I’m imagining Katniss’ scowl as the cameramen poke into rooms – and the reporter noses into topics – that ought to be considered private.

“Little blondie’s the real star over there.”  At my raised eyebrow, Haymitch explains, “As far the Capitol’s concerned, there’s no such thing as too much when it comes to big blue eyes, girlish giggles, and toothy smiles.”

“Uh huh.”  The car rolls up to the house.  “I cannot wait to hear your plan for getting my family to pull _that_  off.”

He chuckles darkly, probably in response to the same mental picture I’m having right now: five Mellarks smiling and giggling over my state-of-the-art oven.  Well, in the case of kitchen appliances, it might actually happen.  If there were fairy dust involved.  Lots of it.  Maybe.

“Oh, they won’t spin it that way for you, youngest brother of three who is finally able to have the best of the best after a lifetime of hand-me-downs.  Oh no, kid.  They want you to puff up your chest and brag your ass off.  They want your daddy to look on with misty eyes when he sees how well you’ve done for yourself, far and beyond anything he could have ever given you, even with a lifetime of backbreaking labor.  They want—”

“I don’t _care_ what they want!”  My hoarse whisper is snatched away by the breeze just before the car brakes to a stop.

Haymitch scoffs.  “You should.  Because I’ve got a pretty good idea what else Snow mentioned to Katniss during his little hospital visit.”

I can guess, too.  “It’s her, isn’t it?  They’ll take her away.”

“Something like that.”

“Something _like_ that or something _exactly_ like that, Haymitch?”

The car doors open.

He gives me a narrow-eyed stare.  “How much do you really need to know, kid?”

I don’t answer him because he has a point.  I _do_  need to know, but don’t I already have enough to deal with right now?  First and foremost—

“Get down there and welcome your family into your _beautiful,_  new home,” he orders me.  “And don’t forget to look Goddamn proud of yourself.”

Oh, sure.  Because I’m always so proud of myself when I’m around my mother.

He clamps a hand on my shoulder.  “Hey.  You got the girl of your dreams.  Start acting like it.”

Right.  Okay.  No problem.  I paste a smile on my face.

I meet my family at the bottom of the steps.  Baxter lets out an appreciative whistle when he sees the house up close.  Duff is tugging on his shirt cuffs, frowning.  My dad looks awkward standing next to my mother.  I know he wants to be supportive and do more than give me a half-assed smile of encouragement, but he’s smart enough not to cross the glacial disapproval emanating from his wife.

I bite back a sigh.  “Thanks for coming out,” I tell Bax and Duff, “and for putting up with all the cameras.”

“Hey, it’s cool,” Baxter says with a roll of his shoulders.  Yeah, he’s always liked the spotlight.  He’d figured out at an early age that agreeing with our mother and parroting her views would make him her favorite.  For as long as I can remember, she’s always been more tolerant – maybe even proud – of him.

The living room lights in the neighboring house flicker, catching my attention as people mill around in the room.  I think of Katniss and I feel a genuine smile tug at my lips.  I would probably still resent Baxter if not for the fact that I know I don’t need to.  I don’t need to fight him for a few crumbs from my mother anymore.  Katniss and I are partners, and that is better.  So much better.

“How long are they going to keep us waiting?” my mother demands.

Rather than answer her, I head across the lawn.  I’d rather go and fetch the camera crew myself than listen to her gripe about how inconsiderate and ignorant people from the Capitol are.  I can just imagine her hateful muttering: “Don’t they realize what time bakers start work in the morning?  Of course not.  Never worked a day in their lives!”

I am so glad I don’t have to live under the same roof with her.  Baxter and Duff, on the other hand…  Well, maybe with me being out of the house, she’ll be a little easier to live with.

When I reach the steps, I have to remind myself not to jog up them.  The me who’d had two legs would have if for no other reason than to burn off some nervous tension… and yeah, I’m nervous.  Anxious.  No matter which version of Peeta Mellark I am, I suspect it’ll always feel a bit like I’m taking my life into my hands whenever I approach Katniss Everdeen’s front door.

I take a deep breath.  I knock.  Prim – still in her lovely peach-colored and almost-ethereal dress – answers.  I know immediately that something’s up.

“Hey, Peeta,” she says, eyes wide.

“Hey, Prim.  I meant to tell you earlier – you look lovely.”

She blushes.  “Thanks.  Um, are you looking for Katniss?”

The real question, I think, is when am I _not_ looking for Katniss?  “Yeah.”

She steps back and I scan the room, spotting her easily.  Oh, shit.  I know that look… and I know that stiff spine and those fisted hands.  I intercede.

“Hey,” I drawl, ignoring the camera crew and interviewer.  In fact, I interrupt the news reporter mid-sentence as she speculates on nights spent zipped up in a sleeping bag and sharing body heat.  Goddamn it.  I had been _dying_  for most of that.  The hell.

I cross the room and slide an arm around Katniss’ waist.  “When’s it my turn?”  I nod toward the trespassers in her house.  “You _are_  going to share, aren’t you?”

She huffs, rolls her eyes, and relaxes against me.  Oh, how sweet such a small victory.  How unbelievably sweet.  “They’re all yours.  Have fun.”

Her tone is far too flat.  I chuckle warmly, softening her sarcasm, hoping they’ll interpret her recalcitrance as discomfort at being put on the spot rather than plotting to incite a rebellion.  I kiss her temple.  “Fun commencing.  You’re gonna be sorry you missed it.”

She shoves at me playfully, a small smile curving her lips.  “Get outta here.”

“Yes, ma’am.”  I turn to the reporter and offer up a bashful grin.  “Would you care to tour my house with me and my family?”

No doubt realizing that I’m a far more cooperative interview subject than Katniss is, she readily accepts.

I don’t really absorb much of the actual interview, and the few less-than-appreciated insinuations she makes are easily brushed aside or ignored.  I’m too tired to even blush.  In fact, I’m so exhausted I can barely keep my smile on, but I answer questions and volunteer short, harmless anecdotes about bakery life as they film my dad and Duff inspecting the oven, Baxter admiring one of the bathroom showers upstairs, and my mother poking around in the pantry.  Probably looking for hard-to-get spices that she can try to browbeat me into handing over: my contribution to the family business now that I’m no longer required to actually do a hard day’s work for the rest of my natural life.

Fifteen very long and somewhat blurry minutes later, it’s done.  I thank Miss Capitol Whoever for her time and the chance to include her in such a momentous occasion.  “This is a real turning point in our lives,” I hear myself say.  “I’m glad you and the citizens of the Capitol could be part of it.”

Ugh.  I feel the need to vomit.  Big, big, _big_ time.

Thankfully, Effie swoops in to confide God-knows-what to the woman and I decide this means I’ve been excused.  As the crew begins packing up their equipment, I show my family to the car, holding the door open for my mother.

“Good night,” I say, not meeting her eyes.  She doesn’t answer.

I tell my dad quietly, “I’ll be busy for the next few days, but I’d like to keep helping out at the bakery if you’ve got something for me to do.”

“Of course, son.  Stop by when you can.”  He squeezes my shoulder and slides into the backseat.

“Hey,” I nearly whisper to Bax and Duff.  “It’s a big house and it’s got a pair of bedrooms you’re welcome to.  Anytime.”  Even though I’m sure Baxter will report whatever goes on here in his presence to our mother, I can’t leave him out.  If I did, Duff would probably never work up the nerve to take me up on the invitation in the first place.

“Mighty _thoughtful_  of you to offer, little Peety,” Bax replies in a jeering tone, the sort that nearly always precedes a house-quaking wrestling match that I’ll wind up getting punished for.

I shrug, refusing to rise to the bait.  “It’s a waste of space for just one person.”

He glances from me to the house before he mildly agrees, “I guess so.”

Bax climbs into the front seat beside the driver and I punch Duff in the shoulder.

“Don’t be a stranger, damn it.  I expect to see your ass on that porch when you’ve got a day off.”

He chuckles.  “Right.  Better warn the neighbors that there’ll be a full moon on Thursday.”

I roll my eyes at the dumb joke.  “Keep your trousers on, doofus.”

“You’re the one who asked to see my ass, peon.”

I point to the backseat.  “In.  You’re holding up Madame Mellark.”

He gets in.  As the car pulls away, Baxter rolls down the window and bellows, “Hey, Mr. Celebrity!”

“What, bonehead?”

“Get some sleep, eh?  You look like shit.”

I smirk.  “You’d know all about that!”

There’s no shouted reply, which means I get the last word.  Again.  Awesome.  I probably look as fully proud of myself as Haymitch had told me I should.  I snort and shake my head.  I’m such an idiot.

I head back to the house.  I know I should offer the camera crew something to drink or whatever, but my ass is dragging.  Effie can handle it.  That’s her job, isn’t it?  If I don’t make it upstairs in the next twenty seconds, I’m pretty sure I’ll be spending the night passed out on the stupid welcome mat.

One foot on the lowest porch step, I pause and spot Katniss – still smoldering breathtakingly in that dress – standing on her front porch, watching me.  Her unapologetic stare is practically an invitation.  No, actually, from anyone else it would _practically_ be an invitation.  From Katniss, it most definitely _is_ one.  Or maybe it’s an order.

I obey.

I stumble over to her front steps, but hesitate to pull myself up them.  I’m just so damn tired.  She can say goodnight to me from here, can’t she?

“Hey,” she whispers.  Her breath is only a little louder than a breeze.

“Hey, yourself.  Congratulations on getting through that without any casualties.”

She scowls in the news reporter’s direction.  The woman is watching us intently; her made-up face broadcasting an unquenchable thirst for a scoop.  Effie is prattling on, seemingly oblivious.

“You, too,” Katniss answers.  Her grey eyes flicker in my direction.  “You are really good at this stuff.”

My grin is lopsided.  “I’ve had a lot of practice dealing with situations that could, um, explode right in my face.”

Katniss doesn’t smile.  Her gaze shifts and she studies my cheek, the one my mother had nearly smashed open with a rolling pin that day: the day Katniss says I’d become a hero.

Despite how inconceivably tired I am, my pulse races.  I’ve been Katniss’ hero all these years and I’d never even known it.

She swallows, licks her lips, crosses her arms over her chest.  “Do you want to…?”

I almost answer “yes” out of pure reflex.  I make myself wait.  Just because Katniss isn’t good with words doesn’t mean I have the right to interrupt her.  No one does.

She bites the inside of her cheek and I have to suppress a wince.  I hate it when she does that.  I’m convinced that she’ll draw blood one of these days.  “Have you figured out how to use the stove yet?”

“Uh… yeah.”

“Show me,” she commands, tromping over to the front door and just about ripping it off its hinges.  “So I can make Prim something for breakfast in the morning.”

Or, I could come over and cook for her and her sister.  I burn to make the offer, but I don’t.  Not out here, not with the camera crew looking on.  Besides, Katniss would probably get offended.  I’m sure she can cook just fine… I just want an excuse to come back as early as possible.

“Sure,” I say instead, gathering myself to attempt yet another set of stairs today.  And it’s turning out to be a very long day.

I make it to the top without incident and wait for Katniss to join me.  I don’t see Mrs. Everdeen or Prim in the living room.  They must be upstairs already… unless the car had taken them home while I’d been enduring the invasion at my house.  “Is your family staying with you?  Living here, I mean?”

Katniss nods as she shuts the front door.  “Yeah.  For a while, anyway.”  There’s so much buried in that tired statement that I don’t even know where to start digging.  I give up for now.  This thorny patch will still be here later.  I’ll get back to it when my brain is functioning.

Onward to the kitchen.

The setup is exactly like mine and so is the range and oven.  I give it a closer examination than I’d spared mine earlier and begin, “Okay so this is the safety switch.  It’s got to be turned off before you start—”

“Peeta.”

I don’t so much look up as twitch.  My whole body just spasms in response to that tone, and when I see her expression…  I gulp.

“Where’s your family staying?”

“Uh, at the bakery.”

She frowns.  “So, you’re…  I mean, it’s just you?  Next door?”

“Um, Bax and Duff might visit.  Sometimes.”

Arms once again crossed, she sidles a few short inches closer to me.  My heart starts inching its way up my throat.  “Stay here,” she tells me softly, sincerely.  I can tell she’s not offering me anything other than sleep, but she must know how much I fear facing that alone.

“Here?” I squeak.

“There are four bedrooms upstairs.”

I know that.  Our houses are pretty much identical except for the numbers on the mailboxes out front.  And I know I won’t turn this down, but I honestly don’t think that a bed in Katniss’ house is going to be any better than one in mine.  I ought to refuse.  I don’t want her to know how much of a mess I am, but how can I turn her down?  If I say no, she might never offer again, and I need this.  Her.  I need to be close to her.

“Thanks,” I accept.  “Sounds great.”

She smiles.  She looks exhausted – there are shadows under her eyes that even her prep-team-applied makeup cannot hide – but that’s a _real_ smile.  “Do you want to go next door to, uh, get anything?”

I shake my head.  No, thanks.  The prospect of thumping my way up and down more stairs just makes me want sit down and spend the rest of the night as a doorstop.  My entire body aches.  My left thigh is twitching like crazy the muscles are so tired.

“Come on,” she invites, leading the way.

“Actually…”  I reach out to gently catch her wrist.  “Hypothetically speaking, if I said I’d prefer the sofa in the living room, would you get mad at me?”

“What’s wrong with a bed?”

“It’s upstairs,” I answer simply and her momentary scowl erases.  She glances down at my leg.  I freely admit, “I don’t think I can make it and, to be completely honest, I don’t even want to try.”

“Okay.  I’ll go find some stuff.  A pillow and whatever.”

“Thanks.”

By the time I make use of the downstairs bathroom, shrug out of my jacket, and figure out how to unknot my bowtie and unclip my suspenders, Katniss is back with bed linens.  She makes up the sofa for me with almost angry movements.  For one horrible second, I think she’s mad at _me_  but, when I whisper my thanks again, her eyes are kind.  I remember the abrupt way she’d opened the front door and suddenly I get it: she’s just tired, just trying to stay awake long enough to get me settled.  If getting a little angry or irritated is what works for her, then I’m not going to knock it.

“Sleep well,” she murmurs a little awkwardly.

“You, too.”  She briefly waffles over something before letting the thought go and pivoting away.  I sink down onto the sofa and watch her head up the stairs.  Her footsteps aren’t nearly as quiet as they should be.

I unbutton my shirt cuffs and the top two buttons before pulling the whole thing over my head and tossing it on top of my jacket on the nearby armchair.  As I absently scratch at my white undershirt, I contemplate my shoes and… accessory.  The shoes have to come off.  That’s a given.  But what about my prosthesis?

I decide to leave it on.  Taking it off might be more comfortable, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.

I lie back.  I tug the blanket up to my chin.  I never used to care one way or the other about the covers – at least not during the warmer months – but I can’t stop remembering that body-encasing sleeping bag from the Games.  At the time, it had seemed like the only think keeping Katniss and me alive… and now I guess my mind thinks that being nearly strangled by bedclothes is a good thing.

I stare up at the ceiling, wishing I could open a window and let the breeze inside.  If I did that, I might be able to convince myself that I’m tucked up in that hollow in the ground between the tree roots, snuggling with Katniss under my netting of camouflage.  Safe.

But I am not safe.  The nightmare hits me just like it had last night.  I’m in the tubes, going down instead of up, listening to mutts snarling and snapping in the dark distance, hearing Katniss’ screams – she’s beating on the glass of her tube trying to get to me and I can hear her clearly, see her, but I can’t reach her and oh God the mutts are _everywhere._   The tube door is sliding open, dumping me out into the coal mine tunnel and they’re coming for me but my leg is gone, left behind in the tube.  The Capitol took it back and now _I can’t run—_

“Peeta!”

I gasp, surging upright.  I can’t think, can’t—can’t do anything except breathe, and I only barely manage that.

“Shh.  It’s okay.”  Warm hands rest on my shoulders, massaging through the clinging T-shirt.  “Just breathe.  In… and out.”

In… and out.  Okay.  I can do that.

“Good.  You’re okay.”  A hand lifts from my shoulder to push my hair back from my forehead and I realize I’m sweaty.

I lean into the touch.  “Katniss…” I sigh.  The sound of her name startles me even as my body relaxes.  It doesn’t matter that my head is all jumbled up; I can recognize her just by the sound of her breathy voice, the feel of her hand.

I focus on finding her in the darkness.

The wash of light from the moon outside refracts off of her eyes, kisses the curve of her cheek, hugs the strap of her tank top.  “You were just dreaming.”

“Did I—was I loud?”  I must have been if she’d come down the stairs to wake me.  “Tell your mom and sister I’m really sor—”

“You weren’t loud.”

Impossible.  Why else would she be here?  “But you—?”

“I, ah, couldn’t sleep, either.”  She nods toward the armchair, the one I’d thrown my clothes over.  The shirt looks slightly wrinkled from where it’s been pressed into the back of the chair and my jacket lies on the floor a few feet away as if it’d been tossed aside.  “I came down here a little while ago to… um…”

“Sleep?” I supply, relieved that I hadn’t bothered anyone else.  And then I back up, tracing the sequence of events—

Had Katniss come down here to be close to me?  Do I make her feel safe?  Had she been trying to get some rest while curled up in an armchair with… my clothes?  I glance from the shirt to the jacket and then to her face.  She’s biting the inside of her cheek again.

Oh.

Really?  Can I do that for her?  Do I have that effect on her?

“Did it help?”  Maybe I can ask to borrow one of her shirts for a sleep aid.

She hesitates.  “Ah… a little.”

“But not much, huh?”

“No.  Not much.”

“Okay.”  I sit up, pulling my legs over the side of the sofa.  I pick up the blanket and hold out a hand.  “Come here.”

This time, her hesitation is almost nonexistent.  I hadn’t mocked her for cuddling with my clothes.  I hadn’t pushed her for an explanation.  But I do say, “If you want to talk about it – your nightmare, I mean – it’s okay.”

She slouches down and leans against my side.  “I don’t.”

I curl my arm around her shoulders.  “That’s okay, too.”

“Aren’t you going to…”  She clears her throat.  “Your leg?”

That sounds like a really, really good idea.  Now that she’s here, anyway.  “Yeah, okay.  If you don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind.”

She watches as I roll up my pant leg and fumble with the fastenings.  I set the prosthesis on the floor, nudging it out of the way under the edge of the sofa, and then I sit back and sigh.  “That feels so much better.”  I reach down to massage the tender skin and aching muscles.

“Why didn’t you take it off before?”

I think about how to answer that.  “Why didn’t you want the Gamemakers to know about your ear in the arena?”

After a moment, she breathes out.  “Oh.”  Her hand finds mine.  I’m too tired to interlace our fingers, but I fit our palms together snugly.  “Partners,” she summarizes.

“Always,” I answer.

Her head lowers until it tilts against mine and, holding each other up, we succumb to sleep.

 


	3. The Itinerary

 

**Peeta's POV**

 

The sound of someone trying to be quiet wakes me.

My eyelids pop open.  It’s just after dawn.  I’d normally be waking up about now anyway but my usual routine is the furthest thing from my mind at the moment.

I slowly tilt my head back, looking toward the stairs.  I am infinitely careful not to tense up or jostle Katniss.  She’s still asleep and I catch my breath when I realize that she’s curled up against me like she had been at our recap interview.  The arm trapped between us lies across my lap and the other is wrapped loosely around my waist.  Her head is tucked down low on my chest.  When she exhales, I feel her breath puff against the fabric of my T-shirt.  It cools by the time it filters through to my skin and I have to grit my teeth.  It’s either that or shudder helplessly.

Wow.  Just… wow.  I’ll be thinking about this later.  Guaranteed.

Another cautious sound jerks my attention away from Katniss and her incredible warmth.  I’d slouched down against the sofa cushions sometime during the night so my head just barely clears the back of it.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see a small, slippered foot peek into the room, followed by a night-gown-covered knee, a lock of gold hair, a single wide, blue eye.  Prim pauses on the bottom step, peering around the edge of the wall, clearly surprised to see me here.

And that’s precisely when I realize that my hand isn’t resting where it should be.  It had slipped, too, and is now curled around Katniss’ ribcage, halfway to her waist.  Well.  Isn’t this awkward.

I give our resident early bird a weak smile.

She cranes her neck, looking pointedly at the sofa, trying to see if anyone other than me is using it.  The angle is thankfully unaccommodating and her sister is slumped low enough to prevent her from seeing much.  Katniss would hate being caught like this with me, especially by her little sister.

“Katniss?” she mouths in perfect silence.

I nod once, my gaze flickering down and to the side.  Prim gives me a bright grin and a thumbs-up before creeping back up the stairs.

Whoa.  I think I’ve just been approved… by half of the Everdeen household, anyway.  God knows what Katniss’ mother would have to say if she saw us like this.  I consider inching away.  I consider heading next door where I belong.  I know I should.  Before her mother gets up and—

_Hey.  Whose house are you in, idiot?_

That’s right.  I’m in Katniss’ house.  If she wants me here, I’ll stay.  Her mother might not like it, and I’ll stand by Katniss if she wants to try and explain, but I’m not going to make decisions which are Katniss’ right to make.

I lean my chin down against the crown of her head softly – so softly – hoping not to wake her.

“Was that Prim?” she mutters into my shirt.

So much for not waking her.  “Uh, yeah.”

“Hm’kay.”  And just like that, she’s out again.  Smiling, sighing out a breath in relief, I close my eyes and join her.

A sharp clatter from the kitchen jolts me awake.  Katniss startles, too, and our heads collide.

“Ow,” I groan as she hisses with irritation.  “Um, good morning?” I attempt.

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head.  “It’s off to a great start.”

Considering that my hand had migrated back down her side and she hasn’t removed it yet, yeah, I think it is a pretty good morning.  When she twists around to consult the clock in the room, I slide my misbehaving arm up to rest along the back of the couch.  Maybe she hadn’t noticed I was kind of, um, groping her.  But when the blanket shifts, revealing a very shapely and very bare knee, I definitely notice _that._

I have to give myself a shake before my mind goes completely blank with shock.  There’s no way she’d ventured down here in just her underwear… right?  Oh, God.  I should not be thinking about this or I’m going to have to split a load of morning wood before I can take a piss.

“Damn it,” she complains.  “Effie’ll be here in twenty minutes and I still haven’t gotten Prim’s breakfast ready.”

“I’ll help,” I hear myself offer and then bite back a wince.  “Uh, if I can borrow the bathroom first.”

“Of course.”  She turns back around and I hastily reach under the sofa for my prosthesis.  The action cunningly conceals the goings-on in my lap from view.  “Thanks,” she mutters.  “For offering.”

“No problem.”  I manage a smile.

I wait for her to get up first and I’m only marginally relieved to see that she’s wearing shorts.  She pads into the kitchen barefoot to investigate the source of the noise and I ogle.  Yes, damn it, I’m admitting to it.  Her legs are long, strong, supple-looking and… oh God why the hell am I still sitting here?

I beat a path to the bathroom.

When I come out, voices draw me toward the kitchen.

“—not a good idea, Katniss,” Mrs. Everdeen says in a tone that’s almost stern, but mostly apprehensive.

“It was fine in the arena,” she retorts brusquely, not providing any wiggle room for argument.  “I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but...”  Insert eloquent shrug here.

Mrs. Everdeen sighs, exasperated.  “I can make you something to help you sleep.”

“I fall asleep just fine.  The problem is I can’t stay that way.”  There’s another meaningful pause, a weighing before an admission is either made or buried.  “It’s the same with my other nightmares.  Herbs never worked for those, either.”

“Katniss—”

“No.  Peeta helps me sleep.  I think I help him.  It’s fine.”

“It won’t be fine if all of Panem finds out.”

“Finds out what exactly, Mom?  That they broke me?”

_Oh God, Katniss.  No.  Don’t say that._

I know this isn’t the best moment to announce my presence, but I have to.  I can’t stand here and listen in anymore.  I stomp my way into the room and head straight for Katniss.  She’s staring her mother down across from the worktable in the middle of the room.  They both look up, but neither woman moves.

“Good morning, Mrs. Everdeen,” I say, reaching out to shake her hand.  It goes against every instinct I have not to apologize for being caught cuddling on the sofa with her daughter, but I keep my mouth shut.  Katniss had invited me over and asked me to stay.  This is Katniss’ house.  As Hunger Games Victors, she and I are both legal adults now.

I move behind Katniss on my way to the stove and pause long enough to place my hands on her shoulders and squeeze firmly.  “No one could ever break you,” I tell her quietly, the strength of my convictions making my voice a little hard around the edges.  “They’ve already tried and failed.”

She turns her head toward me but I’ve already flipped off the safety switch on the stove and started heating the oven.  I angle myself toward the mason jars of flour and oil along the counter and pull down a mixing bowl.  One batch of drop biscuits coming up.  “What time does Prim leave for school?”

“I’ll walk her down in about forty minutes,” Mrs. Everdeen answers.  I can only guess what kind of looks she and Katniss are giving each other.

“I’ll start the eggs if you’ll go get her,” Katniss says and joins me at the stove, smacking a frying pan onto a burner.

“Use that one,” I say, pointing to a smaller burner, “if you’re going to scramble them.  It won’t get too hot.”

For a second, I think she’s going to inform me that she’s making fried eggs and I should mind my own Goddamn business.

She moves the pan.  “Thanks.”

I smile as I sift the flour into the bowl.  The beauty of drop biscuits is that they only take five minutes to mix and twelve minutes to bake.  The fact that they lie in your stomach for half a day could be considered a good thing, I guess, but certainly not by anyone from the Capitol.  That’s why, when Effie bursts in with a very gruff Haymitch in tow just as we’ve all sat down to eat, I keep an eye on her.  I shake my head in silent warning as she reaches for a biscuit and pass her the plate of scrambled eggs instead.

She nearly drops it when she takes a closer look at me.  “Peeta!  Why on earth are you still wearing last night’s tuxedo?”

“Fell asleep in it,” I reply truthfully.  Haymitch narrows his eyes at me.  I refuse to look guilty.  “Woke up late, but I was just in time to help with breakfast.”

Katniss nudges my knee beneath the table.  I have to fight a smile.  I’m kind of impressed with myself: I’d told the complete – if misleading – truth.

“Well.”  Effie sniffs, sounding exactly like my mother.  “Portia and your prep team will be arriving momentarily at _your_  front door.”

I hastily shovel a heaping spoonful of eggs into my mouth.

Katniss bumps me again.  Irritably this time.  “They’ll wait.”  She glares at Effie.  “We can have five minutes before we get dragged all over the stupid district, can’t we?”

Effie has the grace to look a bit embarrassed.  “Well, yes, it is a busy schedule, but we have so much to do, you see!”

And only so many days of funding to do it.  Two victors means twice as many prep teams, stylists, and clothes.  It’s a good thing Twelve is as small as it is or we wouldn’t be getting any downtime at all.  Effie lays a copy of our schedule on the table between Katniss and me.  I glance over at it, skimming today’s action items.  First up is a tour of town this morning with brief stops at historic points.  I wonder which those are supposed to be.  We learn Panem history in school; I don’t know shit about the history of Twelve itself.  Then we have lunch with the business bureau – I’d had no idea the district even had one – and then onward to—

“No,” I say, slapping a hand down on the paper and sliding it back toward Effie.  “This itinerary isn’t going to work.”

“What?”  She sounds completely flabbergasted.  I’ve never told her “no” before.  I’m not sure anyone other than Haymitch has.

“What?” Katniss echoes, looking up from checking Prim’s math homework.  It doesn’t surprise me that she has zero interest in our plans for the day.  She’s used to making her own: sneaking off to hunt in the woods, trading at the Hob, bartering at the backdoors around town.  A bunch of times on a sheet of paper are like dead bugs in a window sill to her.

I tell Effie, “We’re not doing the after-lunch thing.  Absolutely not.”

“Peeta—!”

“What’s going on after lunch?” Katniss wants to know.

I grit out, “A tour of the mines.”

Katniss looks at me blankly.  She blinks once and then stands, scraping the legs of her chair against the floor and striding out of the room.  I hear her take the stairs two at a time.

I glance at Prim.  She’s staring down at her math homework, breathing shallow and hands lying limply on the tabletop.  Mrs. Everdeen sets her fork down and bites her lip.

Effie looks like she’s about to explode.  Haymitch leans over and mumbles into her accessorized ear.  When her eyes widen, I figure she’s on the same page as the rest of us now.

“They make us go there on school trips every year.  That’s bad enough,” I explain tightly.  I’ve always noticed how hard it is for Katniss to endure those Goddamn field trips.  Every time, I’d watched her walking home afterward; she’d looked like a stiff breeze could shatter her.

“I can’t change it,” Effie explains with genuine apology.  I don’t want her apologies.

“It will be a disaster,” I predict.

“Surely, you can do something, Peeta,” she cajoles.  “You’re so good in front of the cameras—”

And if the mines hadn’t recently started appearing in my nightmares, I might have been able to think of something, some kind of distraction, but I don’t trust myself to keep my shit together that long.  I reach down to check the fastenings on my prosthesis through the fabric of my trousers, just to make sure they’re secure.

She proposes, “Suppose we focus on the safety aspect of the—”

Oh, God.  The woman doesn’t get it.

“There are no safety standards!” I hiss.  “Why do you think explosions happen and people die down there?”

An awkward silence descends.  Mrs. Everdeen clears her throat.  “Prim.  Come on, honey.  Get your things.  I’ll walk you to school.”

As Prim slides out of her chair and collects her school bag from the counter, Mrs. Everdeen turns to me.  I brace myself.  “Peeta, our old house is near the mines if Katniss needs a place to… rest afterwards.”

I nod.  “Thank you, but Effie’s going to fix this for us.  Aren’t you, Effie?”

“It’s a PR nightmare, Trinkets,” Haymitch wearily contributes.  “There ain’t nothing redeeming about those mines.”

She wilts into her seat.  “I can’t cancel it.  It’s a requirement.  Direct from the Capitol.”

Those bastards.

“Then I guess we have to go.”

I glance up and Katniss is standing in the doorway, looking fierce and determined.  Her hands are on Prim’s narrow shoulders and it looks like her sister’s presence is the only thing keeping her from shooting something.

“We can put it off for a day or two, can’t we?”  I direct my plea toward Effie.

“Well, perhaps.  I think we could—”

“No.  Nothing will make this easier.  Let’s just get it over with.  It’s fine.”

 _It’s fine._   Oh, God.  Katniss has started to practice lying now, has she?  I thought that was my deal.  It kind of pisses me off that she has to be so damn tough.

“Fine,” I bite out.  To Effie, I say, “Just keep it as short as possible.”

I push myself away from the table and head for the living room to collect my suit jacket from where I’d left it draped over the armchair.  Katniss follows me to the door.

“Hey.”  Her hand is warm but her grip is rough on my elbow.  “What’s wrong with you?”

That is a very good question.  I stop and think about it and… I realize I’m angry at the Capitol.  Again.  They must know that Katniss’ father is dead.  They must know how he’d died.  And yet they’re demanding this of her.   _President Snow_  is demanding this of her.  It’s another threat.  Another reminder of how easily a life can be snuffed out.

And I still haven’t been able to think of a way to help her.  That’s my job.  That’s what I _do._

I’m failing.

Some hero I am.  Katniss is the real hero here.  I can only imagine what it does to her to go down there year after year, seeing and smelling what her father had in his final moments.  I can only imagine what she has to do to keep from losing her shit, and now she has to go through it yet again.

Because I cannot bring myself to either remind her of President Snow’s looming presence in our lives or blame her for being so damn courageous, I tell her, “I have nightmares about the mines.”

Her fingers tighten on my arm, drawing my gaze to hers.  “Me, too,” she says.

I can see people through the living room window – likely our prep teams and stylists – moving outside on the drive.  Maybe they can see us through the sheer curtains.  There could be camera crews and reporters out there, too, but I don’t give a damn about any of it.  I pull her into a tight embrace.  We stand there like that listening to the clock tick.  We don’t separate until someone knocks on the front door.  It’s Cinna with Katniss’ prep team.

“I’ll see you later,” I offer lamely, but Katniss attempts a smile.

“See you later.”

The historical stuff is a blur.  Effie has apparently read up on Twelve and proceeds to lecture our way through town.  I occasionally offer remarks or anecdotes that I think the Capitolites might find interesting.  Knowing that the visit to the mines is going to be a wash, I have to give them something else to use.

Lunch is painfully dull.  I don’t know anything about business.  If Baxter were here, he’d probably be an ass, but at least he’d be able to sound like he was with the program.

And then lunch is over.  I wish we could just punch a button and skip ahead to this evening.  Or, better yet, tonight.  I want the cameras gone.  I want to sit down on Katniss’ sofa with her and just… be.

I try not to let on how concerned I am.  I wouldn’t relish the thought of going into the mines normally.  To say that the mines are dark and cold and dusty just doesn’t do the horror of it justice.  It is hell down there.  The ride down lasts an eternity and kills your hope of ever seeing sunlight again.  And now I’ve got my recent nightmares to add to it, plus the uneven surface of the tunnel floor is going to make walking difficult.  Stumbling around on my artificial leg is only going to keep reminding me of the Capitol, of Snow and his threats:

_I could have both of you left down here to die in the darkness.  That is my power._

I’m not sure whose grasp is stronger as Katniss and I step into the man and materials cage.  Effie, Haymitch, the reporter and camera crew, and our mine guide cram inside with us, pushing Katniss and me against the back of the lift.  I take the chance to untangle my fingers from hers, wrap my arm around her waist, and offer my other hand.  She holds on with both of hers.

When we arrive at our destination, it is as desolate and hopeless as I remember.  No wonder my nightmares are set here.  It’s all too easy to imagine muttations springing from the shadowed crags, all slavering fangs and sinister snarls.

Katniss drops my hand and steps away as we exit the cage.  I know she doesn’t want to be caught on film looking anything other than indifferent to all of this, but I can see her hands shaking in the light of the bare bulbs stapled along the tunnel roof.  I trip on purpose.  She grabs my arm.

“Thanks,” I say, and then I stumble again.  Letting out a self-depreciating chuckle, I comment, “Looks like I’m finding every uneven spot, aren’t I?  Just like back in the arena when I was playing step-on-the-stick while we were out hunting.”  

She snorts softly, almost amused.  “You did all right.”

“Are you this nice to all the klutzes or is it just me?”

Keeping her hands wrapped tightly around my arm, she mutters, “Only the handsome blonde ones.”

I laugh.  I can’t help it.  Oh, my God.  Where the hell had that come from?  She will never cease to amaze me.  I grin widely at her, watching her mouth soften and begin to mirror mine.  I have no doubt that the cameras are on us, catching every little thing about our exchange.  I ignore them.

“So, what you’re telling me is that I’ve got competition?”

She blushes.   _Blushes._   “Um…”  There she goes again, biting the inside of her cheek.  “I haven’t noticed many handsome, blonde klutzes around Twelve.  Should I be looking?”

“Okay, now I am officially concerned.  Woe is me.  Reassure the handsome blonde klutz that there is no one klutzier.”

Katniss coughs out a laugh.  Her smile reaches her eyes.  “There is no one _else,”_  she insists, still refusing to make too much of a joke out of my disability.

I sigh.  “Good enough.”  I press my lips to her temple, lingering just a little longer than I might have normally.  I am so proud of her for getting it together long enough to do that with me.  We’ve given the Capitol their sound byte in the mines.  I think it’s enough and, when the mine foreman begins his spiel, I glance questioningly at Haymitch.  He gives me a subtle nod of approval.  Yes, it’s enough.

The visit is short, as requested, not even half the time of the usual school field trips, but it takes its toll.

“Look,” I say to Effie and the reporter once we’re above ground, “I’m sorry to have to do this, but I need a break.  Can we pick this back up in an hour?”  Next up is a walk through the Seam.  I don’t think they’re going to be able to use much of that footage, either.

“Oh, of course!” Effie enthuses despite the frown from the Capitol reporter.  Today, we’re stuck with the guy who’d covered the homecoming banquet.  I can only guess where the woman is.  Maybe interviewing our former schoolmates.  Who knows.  Effie continues brightly, “In fact, we can get some footage of the area while you rest, Peeta.”

I’m about to turn and nudge Katniss in the direction of her mother’s house when the reporter suggests, “But Katniss can stay and show us around.”

I don’t think he can see my hands start to curl into fists.

Haymitch comes to the unlikely rescue.  “I’m from the Seam,” he announces, “and it hasn’t changed much since my time here.  Hell, I know stories about this place that would make your chest hair grow back twice as curly.”

“Go on you two,” Effie says, flapping her hands at us.  “Shoo.”

We do.

I’ve never actually been to Katniss’ old house before, but I know the way.  I’d heard enough people talk about the Seam’s healer to know which dirt track to take and, from Prim’s occasional trades with my dad, I also know to look for a goat pen around back.  As we face off with the rickety porch steps, Katniss sighs with relief.  I hold my breath and stump my way up.

Mrs. Everdeen is home, working in the kitchen.  I can see an array of jars and herbs on the table, a mortar and pestle in her hands.  She doesn’t ask how it went.  Katniss and I hover in the doorway as she fills two chipped cups with water from the pump station for us.

“We’ll be upst—”  Katniss cuts herself off and glances down at my leg.  It’s hurting again.  I hadn’t mentioned it but maybe I’ve been limping.  “Uh, in the living room.”

“That’s fine.”  Mrs. Everdeen gives me a look.  It’s not exactly encouraging – what mother would encourage a boy to spend more time with her daughter in private? – but it seems friendly enough.

We crash on the age-flattened, pilled-and-threadbare sofa, cups in hand.  After a moment of silently staring into the empty, coal-dust-stained hearth, Katniss leans her shoulder against mine.  “Thank you,” she whispers.  “I couldn’t have done that by myself.”

I’m not so sure.  It would have been harder, but she might have surprised herself.  I don’t tell her that.  She’s too tired to argue with me and I know she’d want to.  Besides, that’s not what she wants to hear right now, so I tell her what she does: “I’ve got you, Katniss.  Partners.”

Our hands find each other’s.  Her head tilts toward mine and our temples meet.  I close my eyes.

“Partners,” she sighs.

 


	4. Town and Seam

 

**Peeta's POV**

 

It’s somehow worse to be standing up on a stage in front of only your peers and kids younger than you, talking about the Games, than it is to actually be _in_ the Games themselves.  Don’t ask me why.  I’m not sure even I could put words to this.

Katniss and I give our speeches.  She does better today.  Maybe because I’d insisted on practicing last night.

“Read it to me,” I’d coached her, scooting to the opposite end of the sofa to give her room for making eye contact.  “Just remind yourself that I’m listening and read it to me.”

“So I just _forget_  about everyone else?” she’d snarked.

I’d chuckled.  “If you can, go for it.  I know I can’t.”  I feel every one of those pairs of eyes.  Every time.

“So what does it matter if you’re listening?  So are a hundred other people.”

“It matters,” I’d told her, reaching out and placing my hand on the paper so she’d had to redirect her scowl at me.  “It matters because I am rooting for you and I want you to do well and it makes me happy when you do.  It matters, Katniss.”

“Is that how you do it?”

I’d swallowed before admitting to the truth, “Yeah.  Knowing you’re listening is big deal.”  For years, she hadn’t.  For years, nobody had listened to me.  For years, I hadn’t even had a voice.  “I want to make you proud.”

Her jaw had clenched.  She’d pulled her speech out from under my palm.  “You do.”

I’d felt my smile stretch, one side lifting before the other.  Katniss’ gaze had flickered up from the paper and then back down.  She’d cleared her throat, and then she’d read her speech to me.

She’d done a bit better with it last night than she had today, but she’s making progress.  Someday, she’ll be able to _speak_ to me while giving a speech.  Someday, she’ll be capable of making that kind of connection with people in staged circumstances.  I just have to keep reminding her that a friend is listening.

Our audience is hardly attentive.  These kids have to be here, just like we do.  The only people who seem interested in the proceedings are the teachers, school staff, and the entire Capitol, of course.  Thankfully, the school assembly is only supposed to last about thirty minutes.  After Katniss and I finish reading our statements, which had been prepared by Effie and edited by Haymitch, representatives from each class – specially selected by their teachers for being reliably obedient – ask us pre-determined questions.  Safe questions.

No one asks what it’s like to kill someone.

No one asks what it feels like to nearly die.

No one asks what kind of nightmares we have.

I can barely handle having them.  Talking about them is still impossible.  Last night, while Effie had been dining with the camera crew in town, I’d gone to my place and thrown some stuff in a duffel bag, and then I’d headed back to Katniss’ house.  She’d offered me my own room on the second floor.  I’d asked for the living room sofa again.

“You gonna give sleep a try upstairs for a while?” I’d asked, more out of curiosity than anything else.

“Um, I guess.”

“Okay.  You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

She’d changed her mind about an hour later.  It doesn’t make a bit of sense, but I’ve never slept so well in my life as I do sitting up on her sofa with my arm around her.

I wish I could put my arm around her now.

A few more questions are asked – mostly about our new houses or what we’d liked about the Capitol during our visit – and then the school principal stands and invites Katniss and me to lead everyone in singing the national anthem before concluding the assembly.

I know I shouldn’t be so thrilled to have a chance to hear Katniss sing again.  It’s just the Anthem of Panem, but I can’t quite keep the grin off of my face.  Even though the song isn’t very inspirational and the background noise of a couple hundred kids’ voices gets in the way, I am ecstatic.  I mouth the words so the sound of my own voice doesn’t ruin this for me.  Katniss isn’t a strong singer; she is sincere, soft, sultry.  I savor her.

For the first time in my life, I wish that stupid song was longer.  As the last note fades, the principal steps forward again and orders everyone back to their classrooms.  We endure another round of handshakes and then we’re being herded out of the school and into the sunny weather.

“Well!” Effie begins in a chipper tone that usually precedes some sort of social gaffe.  “That was charming.  The two of you are _wonderful_  role models for next year’s tributes.  Why, we might even get two volunteers!”

Yup.  Gaffe.  Big, big, _big_ one.

Katniss stiffens.  I can just see the words scratching and clawing at her throat, frantic to be said.

“Great,” I interject.  “That kind of district pride is just what Twelve needs.”  I slap a smile on my face.

Effie beams.

Haymitch, standing just out of camera range, rolls his eyes.

“Being inside the school again must be quite the experience for you both,” today’s reporter – the woman who had covered the house tours – muses.  “What was it like being back?”

Katniss just stares at her.

I rub my hand over the back of my neck.  I honestly have no idea what I’m supposed to do with that question.  Katniss leans into me when I try to buy myself some time by sliding my arm around her.  My gaze skims over the town square and I see people I’ve known all my life.  Townies.  I remember the way the kids in each class had been seated in the gymnasium: the fair-haired kids from town had clustered together, keeping a noticeable distance between themselves and their dark-haired classmates from the Seam.  It actually makes me a little queasy to reflect on that.

“Well,” I begin, unsure of where I’m going with this but trusting Haymitch to shut me up if I stick my foot in it.  “It’s really hard seeing the divide between the Town and Seam kids.  I’d have thought that the Games would change that – seeing how Katniss and I worked together.”

“Has it always been this way in District Twelve?” the reporter presses.  She says it like this isn’t the case in every damn district.  I’m sure it is.  It’s to the Capitol’s advantage to keep us focusing our bitterness and resentment on each other instead of on them.

Surprisingly, Katniss answers this question.  “Yes.  My mother was from town.  She left to marry my dad who was from the Seam.  It wasn’t an easy decision to make.”  Her gaze grows dangerously distant, distracted.  “Or live with.”

This whole thing must be really wearing on her because there’s no way she would have normally let a comment like that slip past her guard.

Before the reporter can ferret for more personal details, I jump in with a soft declaration: “I would’ve left the Town for you.”

Katniss blinks suddenly, her gaze snaps to my face.  She must realize what she’d been on the verge of talking about because she throws herself into a reply.  “No!” she mouths urgently, her hands flying to my shoulders as if she’s on the verge of shaking some sense into me.

She glances behind her, past the streets of the merchant district toward the mines.  That could have been my fate: the mines.  I would have accepted it in exchange for Katniss’ love.  Gladly.  But I can see what it would have done to her, letting me enter that dark pit day after day just like her father had.  Even though she doesn’t love me like that, the constant risk would have killed her by degrees.

“No,” she insists.  “I would _never_  have let you do that.”  I know the reason for this, but she astutely avoids revealing more of her own pain.  “You love working at the bakery.  I’d never let you give that up.”

I collect one of her hands in both of mine and bring it to my lips, kissing her fingers.  “But I can imagine how people would treat you here if you left the Seam.  I couldn’t do that to you, either, Katniss.”

She bows her head, shakes it ruefully.  “I guess that makes us star-crossed in more ways than one.”

When she glances up to check my reaction to this, I smile gently.  “Yeah, but there was still a way.  For us.”  Just as understanding flickers in her grey eyes, I say, “We found it.”

Through the Games.  We are together because of the Games.  I hate that it’s true.  I should have been stronger, braver, better.  I should have moved mountains to show her how much I’ve always admired her.  If I had, then maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess.  Maybe I wouldn’t be deliberately giving people the impression that neither Katniss nor I would have been courageous enough to overcome some piddly social class crap and build a life together without the intervention of the Capitol.  That’s what I hate most about this whole thing: implying that _Katniss_  isn’t that strong – because she is, she’s that strong _and more_  – but this is the impression Snow wants: two dumb teenagers made even more stupid with love.

Thank God Katniss manages a smile.  It even looks genuine.  “Now we’re neighbors.”

“Yeah,” I choke out on a whisper that I hope sounds clogged with emotion instead of bile.

Someone sniffles and I look up in time to catch Effie dabbing at her purple-inked eyelashes with a handkerchief.  At her shoulder, Haymitch gives me a subtle thumbs-up.

Katniss tugs on my fingers, which are still grasping hers, and I find myself on the receiving end of a mischievous smirk.  “Just don’t, um, _watch_ me.  Every day.”

I blink.  Why do those words sound familiar?  I squint, studying Katniss’ expression as I search my memory.  She gives me an expectant look and then it hits me: my confession in that damn cave.  After lauding the Games for helping me grow a backbone, I’d rambled about how I used to watch her walking home from school every day and—

Oh, God.  I squeeze my eyes shut and groan.  “Please tell me I didn’t sound like some kind of creepy stalker.”

She chuckles.  “I’m sure it was just the fever.”

I shake my head, marveling at my own stupidity.  “I’m lucky you didn’t leave me there to fend for myself.”

“That,” she informs me, “was never a possibility.”

That’s reassuring.  And I’m doubly glad that Katniss has given me a chance to set the record straight.  A man shouldn’t be judged by what he says while out of his mind, but I know that I have been.  And Katniss has been judged, too, indirectly.  Again, I’ve got to wonder how aware she is of this stuff.  One of these days, I’ll have to find an opportunity to ask her.

The last item on today’s agenda is a shopping trip.  It had seemed pretty harmless when I’d noticed it on the schedule this morning.  Harmless, but a waste of time.

“They need footage of you two being in love and doing things that normal people do,” Haymitch had grouchily explained.  “So buy your sweetheart here a damn stuffed toy or something.”

I’m starting to feel kind of bad for him.  It’s been weeks since he’s been able to get falling-down drunk.  I can tell it’s starting to wear on him.

“What do you want to look at?” I ask Katniss and she shrugs indifferently, so I incline my head toward the book and stationary shop.

She actually looks surprisingly eager as she steers us both in that direction.  Among the cramped aisles, I pick out some new pencils and erasers.  Looking on with curiosity, Katniss offers to hold my selections and I laugh because our roles are reversed.  “Aren’t I supposed to be the one holding your shopping for you?”

Katniss chuckles.  “When it’s Prim’s birthday, you can come help me pick out a dress for her.  How’s that?”

“Sounds great.”  Still smiling, I point to a display of field journals.  “Pick one of those out for me,” I request, ignoring the cameras filming us from over the rack and at the end of the aisle.  She pulls out a rustic, leather-bound book with thick, cream-colored pages.  I add it to my pile which now includes two different-sized sketchpads.  I throw in a pack of watercolor pencils and an actual pencil sharpener – I’ve only ever used a pocket knife for the task – and decide that’s good enough for today.

“You are like a kid in a candy store,” she gleefully observes and I realize I’m actually bouncing up and down while Mrs. Bendwater totals up my purchases.

“What?  I am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Thumb war,” I declare.  That’ll settle this once and for all.

She wins.  “You are _exactly_  like a kid in a candy store,” she announces, victorious.

As Mrs. Bendwater wraps up my stuff, I demand, “How do you _do_ that?”

“What?”

“Win all the time.  My hands are, like, twice the size of yours.”

Katniss gives me sly smile.  “But your technique is terrible.”

“So, size doesn’t count?  Is that what you’re getting at?”

“Hm.  It’s all about how you use it.”  She waggles her fingers at me and I laugh.  It’s either that or give in to the urge to lean forward and lick as many of them as I can.

Mrs. Bendwater thanks us and invites us to come back again.  I wish her a good afternoon and hold the door open for Katniss.

“Now where to?” she wants to know.

“Today’s Tuesday, right?”

“Yeah…?”

I offer her my arm.  “Do you trust me?”  I add a charming eyebrow wiggle just to see if I can get her to blush.

She doesn’t, but she takes my arm.  “Aren’t you perky today.”

Well, I’ve got plenty of reasons to be: my leg hasn’t started aching yet, Katniss is out in public with me, and Effie will be heading back to the Capitol soon.  Of course, the reporters and camera crews will still be staying behind in shifts for the next however long, but we’ll be free from pointless PR schedules and uncomfortable clothes.  I can’t imagine Katniss’ shoes are any more enjoyable than the stiff, asymmetrical jacket Portia had forced on me today.  Thinking of my old, worn trousers and ingredient-stained T-shirts, I breathe out a nostalgic sigh.  Speaking of baking…

There it is: the bakery.  We’re heading right for it because there’s something I’ve been wanting to do for Katniss for a long, long time, ever since I’d first been given money of my own to spend.  I can remember it with absolute clarity.  My dad had given me three pennies for helping him decorate a batch of cupcakes for a special birthday order.

“What are you going to spend them on?” he’d asked.

My seven-year-old self had announced, “Cookies for Katniss!”

“Do you know which ones she likes?”

“Um… no.”

“Well, maybe you should ask her first before you buy them.”

I hadn’t asked her then.

But I’m about to now.

“Peeta?”  She squeezes my arm questioningly.  She knows what my mother would think – and likely say – about her coming into the bakery with me, but—

“It’s Tuesday afternoon,” I answer softly, tucking my chin down so that I can speak directly into her ear.  “She’s at the wholesaler’s office putting in the bakery’s order for next week.”

“Oh.  But, um… what are we doing here?”

I grin.  “I’m buying my girlfriend, Katniss Everdeen, some cookies.”

She cough-chokes.  “What.”

Again, I have to remind myself not to jog up the steps to the porch.

“Peeta—”

Yup, just as I’d suspected: she wants to refuse.  But for once I use the presence of the cameras to my advantage.  She can’t say no when the whole world could be watching.

I whip open the door triumphantly.  “After you.”

It’s so much fun watching her _try_ to stay irritated with me.  “Maybe I don’t like cookies,” she grumbles, slouching into the shop.

“Everyone likes cookies,” I retort, stepping inside and nodding to Duff when he pokes his head out of the kitchen.

Katniss faces off with me.  Again, we ignore the cameras and the reporter hovering not-so unobtrusively by the door.  Effie and Haymitch file in as well, hugging the wall.  Effie peers at the selection on offer in my family’s shop, maybe comparing them to what the train staff provides.  Haymitch is contemplating the rickety chair next to the door like he’s about to dive onto it headfirst.  Right.  We’ll make this quick.

“Everyone?  Including you?” Katniss dares.

“Well, yeah.”

“Then which ones do you recommend?”

“Oh, um…”  I head over to the confectionaries table and hunt through the baskets of sweets.

“Get the gingerbread ones!” Baxter shouts from the back of the shop.  “Peeta _loves those,_  don’cha Peety?”

“They love you more!” I holler back.

Katniss gives me one of those explain-that-to-me looks of hers.  “Um, I may or may not be pretty good at making gingerbread cookies,” I attempt to non-confirm.

“Dozens and dozens of little gingerbread girls wearing red dresses!  And what color hair do you always give them?  Isn’t it black?  Two braids or one?  Oh, that’s right.  It _varies.”_

I’m going to kill him.  Or humiliate him.  Yes.  Humiliation is a go.  I point to the sugar cookies on display and declare, “Like these here are the spitting image of Madge Undersee?  Is there something you haven’t told us, Bax?”

Katniss peers over my arm and laughs silently when she sees what I’m pointing to.

Bax barks, “Shut it, Peety.”

I make myself let it go.  We’ll never get out of here otherwise.  Besides, I’ve sufficiently redeemed myself, I think.  But, damn it’s hard to just let it drop.  It goes against every younger-and-shorter brother instinct I have.

Katniss reaches around me and points to a basket of pastel-colored almond meringue puffs.  “Prim’s always wanted to try one.”

I collect a tray and a pair of tongs, then select three – one of each color.  “Okay.  And?”

“What do you mean ‘and’?”

“And what would _you_ like?”

“I don’t need any cookies, Peeta.”

“Aw, don’t be like that!” Baxter bellows.  “Let him give you some sugar!”

“Shut _up,_  Bax!” I bellow back.  I think I hear Duff and my dad laughing in the background.  I huff and catch Katniss’ eye.  She’s biting her cheek again, trying not to laugh.  “At least tell me my face isn’t red.”

“Um, it isn’t _very_ red,” she reassures me.  Unsuccessfully.

Great.  I gesture to the shop.  “Pick your poison.  We’re not leaving until you choose something for yourself.”  I give up on making her limit her choice to cookies.  Clearly, my dream was flawed.

Her gaze slides over my shoulder and I know without checking that she’s eyeing up the buns and rolls.  “Seriously?” I ask.  She could have a custard tart or a chocolate cupcake with buttercream icing, a croissant with caramelized glazing or shortbread with apple preserves on top and she wants a _roll?_

She nods.

I resign myself to buying her something totally boring.  “Okay.  What’s caught your eye?”

“The cheese buns.”

I stare at her.

She actually looks a bit embarrassed, which she damn well should be.  She’s making me buy _cheese buns._   “They’ve just always looked really good,” she elaborates reluctantly.

“Are you _sure_  I can’t sell you on any of those cookies?”

“Nope, sorry.”

“Cupcake?”

She shakes her head.

“Tart?  Shortcake?  Croissant?  Danish?”

“Cheese bun.”

The woman is immovable.  I add two cheese buns to the tray.

“You want me to come ring you guys up?” my dad shouts.

“Nah.  I got it.”  I set the tray down and move around to the back of the counter.  It feels weird to be standing here without my baking apron on.  I tally up Prim’s cookies and Katniss’ cheese buns, bag them, and toss the correct amount of change in the till.  I leave the receipt in the drawer so my dad knows what I bought.  I hand the bag to Katniss with a smile.  “For you _and_ your sister.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”  And it becomes even more so when she suddenly leans — almost lurches — across the counter and pecks me softly on the cheek.

“Awww!!”

I jerk back and glare at Baxter.  He’s leaning in the doorway now with his flour-and-soot-dusted hands tucked up under his chin in a mockery of a swoon.  Duff is poking his head around the doorjamb again, biting his lip to keep from laughing.  

Baxter sing-songs, “Da-ad, you totally missed our little Peet-y getting a kiss from his gi-irlfriend!”

Duff snickers.

Screw humiliation.  I will kill them both.  But first, I’ll put the fear of _Katniss_  into them.  “His _girlfriend,”_  I snark back, “who just got home from the Hunger Games.  Go on, bonehead, and keep digging that hole.  That’s where she’s gonna bury your dumb ass once she’s through with you.”

Both Baxter and Duff glance at Katniss.  I swear to God, the look she gives them is enough to give a guy nightmares.  I’d had no idea she could pull off a toothy smile like that.

“Uh, good seeing you again, Katniss,” Duff placates and disappears.

Baxter points a finger at me as he ducks back into the kitchen.  “This ain’t over.”

It never is.

I come around to the other side of the counter and whisper to Katniss, “You are awesome.”

The smile she gives me in reply is _much_ better than the one she’d given my brothers.  And yeah, I’ll take it.

 


	5. The Talk

 

**Peeta's POV**

 

“These are good.”

I determinedly ignore the camera zooming in on us from the far corner of the front yard and smile.  I concentrate as my hand moves over the surface of the sketch paper.

“Are they?” I ask, studying the curve of her inner wrist as I draw the tip of the pencil down.  I glance at my progress and note the accuracy of the line with satisfaction.

Katniss shifts on the porch step, bringing her knee up between us.  “You don’t know?”

“Hm?”  The heel of her hand captures my attention now, the precise slope of skin over the pads of muscle.

“You don’t know what your own cheese buns taste like?”  Is she surprised?  It’s not like we can eat whatever we want.

“Well, technically, they’re my dad’s.  He’s the one who makes them.”

“And he never lets you have any?”  Ah.  She really does think that, being bakers, we get our fill of bread and pastries.

“It’s not like that, Katniss,” I reply quietly.  The thought of my explanation being overheard or recorded makes me grind my teeth together.  “A bakery is a business.  And, yeah, the cheese buns are pretty popular.  It’s been ages since I’ve had a fresh one.”

Katniss contemplates me for a moment, chewing slowly.  Then she rips off a piece that’s slightly bigger than could be comfortably managed in one bite and offers it to me.  “Here.  Try it.”

I smile and shake my head.  Holding up my hands, I say, “I’ll take a rain check.  Don’t wanna get anything on my masterpiece.”

“Hm.”

She doubts me.  I roll a shoulder, shrugging.  “Definitely a masterpiece.  I can tell already,” I assure her, following the lines of shadow and afternoon sunlight around her knuckles.

“I’m sure.  Open up.”

“What?”

She leans over and offers the morsel to me, a few short inches away from my mouth.  I suddenly remember our time in the cave and how she’d fed me berries.  I remember the feel of her thigh bracing my back as she’d held the water container steady for me to drink from.  I remember her palm on my chest, her gaze locked with mine, her lips—

With a shuddering breath, I stop myself from reliving that kiss.  It doesn’t count.  Never happened.

Yeah.

Right.

Still, looking back on it, I guess that feverish time in the cave wasn’t __all__  bad.

“Humor me,” she entreats.

My pulse starts a low throbbing that I can feel in my toes, my ears, my wrists, and that soft, fleshy space behind my knees.  Unable to look away from her eyes, I lean forward and part my lips.  She watches me take a bite, licking her lower lip absently and then scraping her teeth over it.  Beneath the sketchbook laid out over my lap, things start happening.  Oh, God.  She has no idea what she does to me.

I almost forget to actually taste the bread in my mouth, but when I do…

“Oh, wow.  This __is__  good.”

Katniss huffs.  “I told you!”

Grinning, I snap my teeth at the remaining bit pinched between her fingers.  “Are you gonna share the rest of it or what?”

She weaves it through the air, teasing me, before popping it between my teeth.  I close my lips quickly, hoping to catch one of her fingertips, but she’s too fast for me.  I answer her look of suspicion with an apologetic smile.  She’s still glaring at me a bit as she lifts her fingers to her own mouth.  The pencil droops sideways in my nerveless grasp when she licks the pad of her thumb before sucking briefly on the tip of her index finger.  Those fingers had just been a mere fraction of an inch away from my mouth.  That could have been __me__  she’s tasting now instead of oil and flour.

I force myself to take a deep breath and when I almost choke on the un-chewed bite of bread still in my mouth, I remind myself to finish eating it.  I could forget about just about anything whenever Katniss is around.  Point in fact, the sounds of movement coming from inside her house and the people roaming around in mine are only so much background noise to me.  Nor do I care that cameras are filming us from across the lawn.  Isn’t it sad that I’m almost used to it.

So, yeah, I don’t really give a damn that our stylists and prep teams currently have the run of our respective houses.  It’s hard to give a damn about anything when I’m spending a lazy afternoon lounging outside Katniss’ house, sketching a portrait of her working her way through a cheese bun.  But, it does give me some nice, __safe__  conversation fodder.

“Aren’t you worried?” I query suddenly.

She tenses.  “About what?”

There’s so much to choose from that I have to force a smirk.  “Whether Cinna’s going to leave you anything that’s actually wearable in your closet?”

My jacket lies abandoned over the porch railing, out of sight and out of mind… where it should be.  Katniss’ painful-looking, narrow shoes are piled one-on-top-of-the-other in the grass beside the walkway.  I’ve been trying not to stare at her bare feet ever since we’d returned from town.  Having the sketchpad on my lap has given me plenty of excuses to glance down, however, and I’ve made the most of the opportunity.  I’d never thought a girl’s feet could be so appealing.  They are, though.  They really, really are.

Katniss shrugs.  “He only dresses me up for the cameras.  It’ll be fine.  I trust him.”

That is quite the statement given that she’d met the man less than a month ago.  I try not to be jealous.

She sends me a sidelong look.  “Don’t you trust Portia?”

“Not to leave my old T-shirts alone.”  I’m sure they’re all moldering at the bottom of a trash bin as I speak.

“Maybe she’ll be too traumatized to touch them.”

“She’d better be.  Those scorch marks and berry-stains and I have _history.”_

When Katniss snorts out a laugh, I fall in love with her.  All.  Over.  Again.

She winds down and I return to my sketching before she can catch me staring at her.  With a sigh, she folds down the top of the paper sack and sets it beside her.

“Hey.  Isn’t there still another cheese bun in there?” I demand.

“Er, yeah.  Do you want it?”

“No,” I drawl, shaking my head.  “I want __you__  to eat it.”

“I’m saving it for Prim.”

Of course she is.  “Prim has cookies.  The cheese buns are for you.”  Maybe I hadn’t been clear on that earlier.

“Well, if they’re mine, I can do what I want with them.”

Whenever she gets like this, it’s all I can do not lean over and kiss her right on her beautiful, stubborn lips.  “I’ll bring back a cheese bun for Prim tomorrow, okay?  Eat the second one if you want it.  It’s yours.”

Katniss is quiet for a moment.  Since she’s often quiet, I don’t think much of it.  Especially since I’m a little preoccupied with trying to get the highlights along her braid just right…

“You’re going to the bakery tomorrow?”

“Huh?  Oh.  Yeah.  I thought I’d stop by and see if they need the help.”  It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask if she’d like to come along, but maybe it’s too soon for that.  Besides, my mother will be there and that’ll hardly be a treat for Katniss.  I say instead, “What are your plans?  Tomorrow being our first unscheduled day back and all.”

She shrugs.  “Stay inside and avoid the cameras.”

The corners of my lips tuck upward into a wry grin.  “They’ll just send Effie back to doll you up and shove you out of your house.”

Her sigh is blustery, speaking of irritation.  She knows I’m right.

“Do what I’m doing,” I engagingly entreat.

“Work at the bakery?”

“Sure.  If you want.”  She doesn’t.  I can see it in how her expression subtly tightens.  “But, actually, what I meant was set up a routine… and stick to it.  The less interesting the better.”

She tilts her chin up in a gesture of sudden understanding.  “So, you’re going to bake them into boredom?”

I chuckle.  “You bet.  Knead until they nod off.  Frost until they forget.  Caramelize them into not caring.  Leaven them into leaving.”

“You know a lot of baking words.”

“Say that again,” I request, looping my fingers through the air in the universal gesture for repetition, “but try to sound a little more impressed this time, will you?”

She shakes her head on a smile.

Life is good.

It’s even better when I find myself staring at a drawer full of old, worn, beat-up T-shirts in my bedroom.  Despite the evidence, I still can’t believe that Portia is the one responsible for saving my shirts.  Baxter would have just left the garbage can in my room so I could rescue them myself.  It could have been Duff… but he never would have folded them so neatly.  Must have been Dad.

The sound of hangars being arranged, picked up, put down, and shoved aside stops.  Portia steps back from the open closet and announces, “Peeta, sweetness, you’re all set.”

I shove the drawer shut as I turn.  “Really?” I tease.  “You’re leaving me to my own devices?”

She smiles.  “Well, you’ve already caught Katniss’ eye.  My work here is done.”  She makes a show of dusting off her hands.

It takes a monumental effort to keep myself from setting her straight.  I haven’t caught Katniss’ eye.  This is just a… situation and we’re partners, she and I, working our way through it.  That’s all.  “Yeah, well, without you here, I’ll probably dress myself in stuff like that yellow shirt and those striped pants.”

“Which wouldn’t be a bad combination.”

“My point exactly!  If that’s what I pick out when I’m trying to look like an idiot, imagine what I’ll choose when I want to look, you know, decent.”  I affect a horrified grimace.

She rolls her eyes.  “Oh, honestly.  Just call me and I’ll talk you through it.”

I grin.  “You’re really looking forward to that, aren’t you?”

“Most definitely!  Personal stylist to Peeta Mellark.  I expect Caesar Flickerman will be calling by sundown.”

“Don’t tell him all my secrets.”

Portia tweaks my shirt collar into place and pats my cheek.  “Oh, sweetness.  You are an open book.”  She sobers suddenly as she moves to artfully ruffle my hair.  Katniss and I won’t be seeing Effie and our teams off at the train station, but I’m determined to at least wave goodbye from my front porch.  Portia is probably anticipating this, knowing the cameras will be ever-rolling.

“Peeta-sweet, I am so glad you’re home.”

“Me, too,” I answer thickly.  “I never really expected that I would.  Come back, I mean.”

“Then you underestimated your brave Katniss blossom.”

I blink, wondering what she means by that.

Smiling gently, she tells me, “You remember that dinner just after the Tribute Parade?”

I nod numbly.  

“From the moment you spoke up for her abilities, she was determined to save you.”

What?  I can remember what I’d said that evening – _“She’s better than ‘all right.’  My dad buys her squirrels.  He says she hits ‘em right in the eye every time.”_  – but surely that hadn’t affected Katniss the way Portia seems to think it had.  No way.

Portia croons softly, “You were so proud of her, so admiring…  What girl could resist that?”

“Now you’re overestimating __me,”__  I mutter uncomfortably.  “I don’t affect her like that.”

“You did and you do.  If you stop and think about it, you’ll see it for yourself.”

She could be right, but I can’t afford to hope only to find out I’m wrong.  I can’t let myself believe it if it’s not real.

I say goodbye to my prep team from the porch, watching the car pull away and listening to Katniss’ farewells to Cinna just across the way.  It doesn’t make a bit of sense that she and I have grown so close to complete strangers.  Or does it?  When was the last time someone took care of us?  Made us feel special?

I think maybe I’ve returned that particular favor when Prim squeals over her cookies.  She’s too shy to hug me, so I tweak one of her braids and, whisper loudly enough for Katniss to overhear, “Hey, do you think you can get your sister to try one for me?”

Katniss rolls her eyes, but she knows she’s trapped.  She’s up to her elbows in dishwater and Prim’s expression is the epitome of determination.  Katniss grumps, “I don’t like cookies.”

Prim argues swiftly, “You don’t even remember the last time you had one so you don’t even know if you like them or not!”

Katniss’ consternated expression makes me snicker even as my heart breaks for her.  I resolve to bring her a cookie every day – _every day_ – for the rest of my life.

Katniss and Prim’s argument is distracting, but Katniss multitasks like a pro.  I keep on drying the dishes she hands me and arranging them in neat piles on the counter.  Eventually, Prim declares, “If you don’t try one on you own, I’ll make you!”

“Yeah?  You and whose army, little duck?”

“Peeta!”

I startle.  What?

Primrose smiles sweetly.  “You’re good at wrestling, aren’t you, Peeta?”

“Uh…”  Oh, my God.  Is she actually suggesting that I pin her sister down so she can force-feed her a stupid cookie?  That’s just… wrong.  And, um, hot.  I try not to think about pinning Katniss to the cabinets, the worktable, the floor, the sofa… leaning in and placing one of those delicate confections on her lips, watching her draw it into her mouth, answering the invitation in her eyes and pressing my mouth to hers, sampling the sweet upon her hot tongue—

“Fine!  You win.”  Without preamble, Katniss leans down and opens her mouth.

Grinning brightly, Primrose places a single meringue cookie in her sister’s gaping mouth.  “There.  Now savor it!” she instructs.  “And when you’re ready to admit how good it is, I will be in the living room.”

She pivots smartly on her heel, braids flying out behind her, and marches out of the kitchen.  There’s a moment of weighted silence and then I just can’t hold it in anymore.  I lean my elbows on the counter, bury my face in the dish towel, and laugh until tears squeeze out past my eyelids.

“It wasn’t that funny,” Katniss mutters.

I take a deep breath and straighten up to accept the next dripping dish from her.  Chuckling, I argue, “Oh yes, it was… because she’s _you _…__  times twelve.”

This pulls Katniss’ lips into a sudden, knowing smile.  “Yeah.  She is.”

We continue working in companionable silence until Katniss offers, “She’s right, though.  The cookies are really good.”

I lean over and kiss her cheek.

Her grey eyes flicker in my direction, but she doesn’t shift away.  I smile softly and kiss her a second time, lingering long enough to daringly nuzzle a few strands of hair away from her ear, pushing them aside with the tip of my nose.  I inhale deeply, my fingers curling into the dish towel.  I know I need to back off.  Katniss hasn’t shoved me away yet and it’s just a matter of time before she does.  Unless I say something harmless… something to make her laugh.

“Prepare yourself for the Cookie Campaign,” I murmur, my voice coming out too low, too soft.  A rumbling purr.  “This is only the beginning.”

“What?”  She flinches away from my lips, her brow furrowed but not out of irritation or anger.  I see confusion.  Incomprehension.

There’s something wrong.  I frown, trying to figure it out.  Katniss shifts uneasily, tucking her chin down and suddenly I get it.  I’d just whispered in her left ear.

“They didn’t fix it?” I mouth, careful to angle my face toward hers so she can catch the motion of my lips just in case the nearly non-existent sound doesn’t make it to her right ear.

She shakes her head.

Goddamn them all.

I don’t even think about it before I do it.  I wrap my arms around her and hug her sideways, holding her tightly to my chest.  Her shoulder presses against my sternum and my hands curl around her right arm.  I press my cheek against her braid and glare at the far wall.  Those bastards.  They could have fixed her ear, I’m __sure__  of it _ _.__

“I’m fine,” she rasps, squirming.

“I know,” I answer, letting my arms drop and collecting the dish towel again.  “That was for me.”

Glancing sideways, I spy a small smile playing upon her lips.  “Oh.”

“Hey!  Katniss, Peeta!  The recap is on!”

Super.  I toss the towel back on the counter as Katniss wipes her hands dry.  We enter the living room just as today’s half-hour of torture begins.  The whole victors’ homecoming thing is ridiculous.  The camera crews, the interviews, the schedule, the _pandering_ to the Capitol.  It’s just an excuse for the Capitolites to enjoy a masturbatory thrill as they pat each other on the back.

Yesterday’s recap had focused on the history of Twelve and our brief flirting in the mines had been the featured highlight, sending the clear message that the Games have elevated us above the dreary existence we had previously been condemned to endure.  I can just imagine how proud of themselves they feel because they’ve “saved” us.  The hell.

Tonight, they tell the story of a district divided: Town and Seam.  Katniss and I are obviously supposed to be inspirational figures in the struggle to overcome prejudice rather than outcasts among our own people.  They end with Katniss practically diving over the counter in the bakery to give me a kiss on the cheek: a boy from the Town and a girl from the Seam bridging the distance.

I glance at Katniss.  We roll our eyes in tandem.

The screen clicks off and I find myself turning toward the hand on my arm.  Prim smiles shyly.

“Thank you again for the cookies, Peeta.”

I grin.  “Thanks for helping me get Katniss to try one.  Are you up for an encore tomorrow?”

“Sure!” she agrees.

Katniss scowls.  “Do your homework,” she orders.  Prim sticks out her tongue defiantly, but marches up the stairs to get started on it.  I bite back a smile.

Katniss then launches herself up off the sofa and stomps back into the kitchen to finish cleaning up.

Not so surprisingly, Mrs. Everdeen motions for me to stay put.  “Peeta…” she begins and I know what she’s going to say, what she has to say.  My brothers have disclosed the full horror of these kinds of talks to me.

I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees, and sigh.  Neither one of us seems all that sure on how to begin.  I’ve never been given this particular talk before, and I wonder why Mrs. Everdeen seems just as inexperienced as I am.  Surely she’d had this discussion with Gale Hawthorne at some point, hadn’t she?

She begins with a conclusion, “I can see that you care about Katniss very deeply, but I can’t approve of you staying over at night.”

I nod.  “I know, Mrs. Everdeen.”

“Katniss has never really cared what people think, and that’s going to get both of you in trouble.  Sooner rather than later.”

Shit.  She’s right.  Why hadn’t that occurred to me before now?  Every night I spend here is one more irreversible step on the path Snow has laid out for us.  I need her, but that need has the power to trap her, chain her to me.  Part of me – some dark and starving shade of my soul – wants that, wants her any way I can have her.  But I know it’s wrong.  So inconceivably wrong.

I can’t do that to her.  I can’t play both of us right into Snow’s hands.

I understate, “I know it looks bad.”

“Looks?” Mrs. Everdeen presses.  She’s worried about her daughter’s virtue.  I’m terrified for her vanishing freedom.  The latter makes me want to roar with fury, so I focus on the former.

Breathing out slowly and calming myself, I tell her, “Katniss doesn’t have any interest in… um, that.  With me.”  Truthfully, I’m not sure if I could deal with it if she did.  The nightmares, the carefree act we have to put on for the cameras, the fear that no matter what we do Prim’s name will still be called next year at the Reaping or the one after that or…  This is such a long road and I feel weary just thinking about it.  No wonder Haymitch drinks so much.

“Before the Games started,” I attempt to explain, “we helped each other, stuck by each other in training.  I tried to get sponsors for her.  That’s all I wanted from my interview with Caesar.”  I can’t believe I’m confessing this to Katniss’ mother of all people, but I can’t stop thinking about what Portia had said earlier.  Do I have an effect on Katniss?  Or have I somehow manipulated her?

My hands fist.

I grit out, “I never intended to make Katniss save me.  That wasn’t my plan, but she wouldn’t let me go.  And that’s my fault.  With what I said in my interview… they never would have forgiven her if she’d let me die.  I backed her into a corner.  I know she doesn’t want this.”

“But you do,” Mrs. Everdeen softly accuses.

“Yeah.”  There’s no point in denying it.  I run my fingers through my hair.

When I glance up, the look in Mrs. Everdeen’s eyes – a blend of pity and caution – makes me flinch.  “We’ll get through this,” I promise.  “People will eventually forget about us.”  We both know it’s a lie, but she doesn’t call me on it.  “In the meantime, we’re partners.  Friends.  Just friends.”

 _Not_  friends with benefits; just friends with nightmares.

Katniss’ mother sighs.  “I don’t want either of you to get hurt.”

“Thanks.”  I don’t feel like I’ve earned the right to be included in that statement, but I appreciate the gesture.  “I really do just want to keep her safe and make her happy.”

She sighs.  “That has been self-evident for some time, but you need to sleep in your own bed from now on, Peeta.”

“Mom.”

I stiffen.  Mrs. Everdeen looks up.  I don’t have to do likewise to know that Katniss is scowling at us from the doorway of the kitchen.

“Stop.  He’s staying.”

“Katniss—”

“No.  He has to stay.”

“This could ruin you both!  If people find out about this, they’ll pressure you into doing something you don’t want—”

“They’ll do that no matter what!  Do you think this is going away?  That we can just ignore their expectations?  They own us, Mom.  They own us.”

I bite my lip, hearing the truth in those words.  Hating it.

“I need Peeta here.  With me.”

I clasp my hands together as if my own grip is enough to save me.  It isn’t.  I need Katniss, too.  I need her so much.  Together, we are somehow a little less broken.  And yet, together, we are still slaves to the Capitol.

“Katniss—”

“I dream of the arena,” she interrupts.  Matter-of-factly, she reports, “Every night.  In the hospital in the Capitol.  On the train coming back.  Here in this house.  I dream that I win the Games.  Alone.”

Oh, God.  Her nightmare is horrible.  I’m terrified for her because of all the details she _doesn’t_ say.  I can imagine them.

“He stays, Mom, but you don’t have to.”  With that, she turns around and heads back to the kitchen.

Before Mrs. Everdeen can react to that, I murmur, “Stay, please.  She needs you here.”  If she goes, we won’t have a chaperone and that would make the rumors worse if – _when_  – they start up.  “I’ll talk to her.  Just give her a little more time to get it together.”

“I’m trusting you, Peeta.”

The hard look in her eyes terrifies me.  I cannot fail.  Not for her sake or my own, but for Katniss’.  “I won’t let you down.  Either of you.”

She nods and I know I’ve been dismissed.  It’s all I can do to keep from running into the kitchen.  I shouldn’t have made that promise.  I have no idea how I’m going to keep it.  How do I help Katniss without nudging us further down this star-crossed-lovers road?  But, given President Snow’s edict, how can I not?

This is impossible.

I’m doomed no matter what.

When I make it to the counter and reach for the dish towel, I realize that Katniss hasn’t even submerged her hands in the water yet.  She stares at the soap bubbles, chewing the inside of her cheek.

“Um, do you want to switch or—?”  I don’t finish the question because suddenly Katniss has wrapped her arms around me.

I bring mine up and rub her shoulders.  After a moment, she whispers, “I’m sitting there with Caesar watching the recap and I see…”  She pauses, swallows, and speaks again.  This is her nightmare.  Or one of them: “I watch Gale getting torn apart by mutts, Prim being stung to death by tracker jackers, and you…”  Me?  “…in camouflage, lying there with an arrow sticking out of your chest.”

Oh, God.  As far as nightmares go, it is terrible.  Katniss fears failure like nothing else, so that’s what she dreams.  She sees herself failing the people she cares most for in the world: Gale, Prim, and me.

Me.

Oh, God.  Does she mean it?  Am I really—?

“You’re staying,” she insists harshly.  “You promised you would.  No matter what.”

I _had_  promised her that.  “No matter what,” I agree.  When she pulls away, I let her go.

We finish cleaning up in silence.  Katniss checks her sister’s homework.  I go next door to pack an overnight bag.  I don’t see any cameras, but I’m vigilant nonetheless.

When I return – entering through the back door without knocking – she’s waiting for me on the sofa with blankets and pillows already laid out.  I wash up in the downstairs bathroom.  She doesn’t even pretend to consider going upstairs to bed.  She waits while I detach my artificial leg then she settles her weight against my side.  I kiss the top of her head.

She breathes out slowly.  “Cinna’s gone.  Effie, too.”

“And Haymitch has gone back to drinking.”

“I don’t know who I’m supposed to be now,” she whispers angrily.

I know the feeling.  With no one throwing a pre-approved and ready-made identity at me, I feel adrift, too.  Lost in a perilous sea of other people’s expectations.  I tell her, “Be whoever you want to be.”

She doesn’t say anything.  Her shoulders are tense, her hands fisted.  She doesn’t like that answer any more than I do.

I try again: “Be my friend?”

Her arm squeezes my waist briefly, encouragingly.

“And eat the cookies I make for you or you’ll be sorry.”

She huffs out a chuckle against my threadbare T-shirt, one of the survivors that had made the transition to this new life.  “Is that so?”

“Yup.  Because I’ll tell on you to Prim.”

“You’re evil.”

“Only when it comes to cookies.”

She laughs softly.  I hug her closer.  And there are no bad dreams tonight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where are the cameras? Well, I was tempted to write the camera crew as shadowing Katniss and Peeta everywhere, even inside the house. But. I gave it some thought, and here’s the deal: the camera crew works for the Gamemakers (so, Seneca Crane’s team... though he might already be dead at this point and Plutarch Havensbee could be in charge). The Gamemaker’s primary goal is ratings. The camera crew isn’t stupid; they have experience filming and presenting victors (who are often still dealing with trauma from the Games) in a way that satisfies the audience. So just because Peeta and Katniss don’t see any cameramen, that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. And just because they are visible, that doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re buying the whole “star-crossed lovers” front. Regardless, a lot of editing will be done before anything is broadcast in the Capitol or out to the Districts.
> 
> Regarding Haymitch, the things he does and (more importantly) doesn't do ARE significant, though I may not go into detail much in this fanfic because, like, as I mentioned in the summary, this is all about Peeta and Katniss sorting themselves out. (^_~)


	6. Unforgiven

 

**Peeta's POV**

 

After a breakfast of drop biscuits and bacon in milk gravy, Katniss and I offer to walk Prim to school so Mrs. Everdeen can go directly to their old house in the Seam.  She’d given both Katniss and me a disappointed look as she’d headed out the door.  Katniss had pretended not to see it and I’d pretended not to be affected by it.

I am, though.  I want to do the right thing.  I just don’t know how to balance Snow’s demands and Mrs. Everdeen’s logic.

“What do you mean it’s going to take a lot of work?” Katniss asks, elbowing me in the side.  I guess I’ve been noticeably quiet this morning.  I make an effort to pay attention to the conversation.  The camera crew drifts in our wake, recording every word.

“She’s going to turn it into a clinic,” Prim tells us excitedly.  “I’ve been helping her after school.”

“How’s that going?” Katniss asks seemingly for the sake of asking something.  She doesn’t sound very interested in her mother’s endeavors.

“Good, but we could use more help.”

“Hm.”

I volunteer, “If they don’t need me at the bakery today, I’ll stop by.”

Prim grins at me and then frowns at her still-silent sister.  “Katniss, are you and mom fighting?”

“What?  No.  Not really.”  Katniss shoves her hands into her pockets.

“That’s means you are,” Prim shrewdly deduces.  “You should go talk to her.”

Katniss looks away, shaking her head.  “Like she’s going to listen.”

“She’s different now.”

“Like how?”

“Go see for yourself,” Prim urges.  “The Games… she woke up, Katniss.  Really.”

Katniss sighs.  I can’t resist reaching out a hand and pressing my palm to the small of her back.  I know Katniss doesn’t need my support on this.  I half expect her to shrug my hand off, distant cameras and hovering reporters be damned.  She leans into it instead.  Oh, wow.

“Okay, Prim.  Fine.  I’ll go.”

We watch Prim jog up the path to a group of girls in her class.  She stops at the door and waves to us.  Katniss lifts a hand in reply.  I merrily wave back.

“Walk with me to the bakery?” I invite with a persuasive grin.  “It’s on your way.”

She nods.  I hold out a hand.  She takes it.  Neither of us bothers to glance toward our Captiol shadows.  We both know they’re there.  I rub my thumb up and down the back of Katniss’ hand as we walk.

“Katniss?” I check.  Her silence is a darker kind this morning.  There’s anger in the clutching grip of her fingers between mine.

“Prim makes it sound so easy.”

She doesn’t put a name to it, but I can guess what it is she’s talking about: forgiveness.  “Yeah, she does.”

Somehow, though the words don’t reveal much of anything, they poke holes in the dark clouds that had been gathering in her thoughts.  No, life isn’t any easier despite our Capitol-approved awards and lifestyle.  In fact, just about everything is more perilous.  But I’m walking through the middle of town holding Katniss’ hand with a promise –  _“I’m with you.  No matter what.”_ – sandwiched between our palms.  And I can’t be sorry for that.

“Are you going to be okay today?”

I look over at her, baffled.  “It’s only been a couple of weeks.  I think I can still remember how to roll out cookie dough.”

“I mean…”  She looks up at the sky.  “Everything’s different now.”

“I’ll say!”  Katniss startles at my sudden, happy tone and then mirrors my goofy grin with a reluctantly charmed smile.  I tug her to a stop beside the backdoor of the bakery and spin her into my arms.  “This used to be a dream once upon a time,” I confide softly.

“What?”

“This.  You with me.  Just like this.”

“Behind the bakery?”

“Yup.  Do you have any secrets to share?  I’m fresh out.”

“Not a one.”

“Oh.  Well.  Plan B!”

“Peeta!” she gasps as I bear-hug her.  “Can’t breathe!”

I chuckle, setting her back down on her feet and collecting her hands in both of mine so I can press kisses to her knuckles.  She tries to look unimpressed, but she doesn’t fool me.  I’d know that impish sparkle in her eye anywhere.  “Sorry.”

“No you’re not,” she accuses flatly.

Okay.  I’m not.  I whisper against the palm of her hand, “Any idea how long you’ll be at your mom’s?”

“Not really.”

“Stop by here on your way back?”

For a second, it looks like she’s going to be difficult about it on principle, but then she shrugs.  “Okay, sure.”  I know she’s just humoring me, but I don’t really care.

“Great.  I’ll see you later.”  I climb up onto the first step.

“Hey.  Forgetting something?” she asks, wiggling her fingers in my grasp.  I’m still holding her hand.

“Oh.  Right you are.”  I pivot around and press a kiss to her forehead.  “Have a good day, Katniss.”  I caress her fingers once more before letting her slip through my grasp.

She nods, a ghost of a smile on her lips and that warmth in her eyes.  “You, too.”

I stand on the steps as she stuffs her hands in her pockets and heads down the lane.  I watch until she turns the corner.  With a centering breath, I reach for the door handle and, out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse the camera crew slinking out of view.  Damn but I’m really looking forward to the day when they get tired of following Katniss and me around.  What had Haymitch said?  Two weeks, max?  I’m not sure if I’ll make it that long.  Although, their tenacity just seems to prove Mrs. Everdeen’s point.  It’s only a matter of time before someone films me heading over to Katniss’ house at night and not leaving until early the next morning.  This is a recipe for disaster.

Sighing, I pull open the door and push my way through the cramped and cluttered breezeway.

“Peeta!”

“Hey, Dad,” I greet, shoving my way past a pair of rain slickers, stumbling over some toppled galoshes, and stepping into the kitchen.  “What’re you and bonehead up to today?”

“Having a good time until you showed up, peon,” Baxter growls, coming up behind me.  I duck out from under his arm, laughing.  “Someone’s in a good mood,” he complains.

I don’t deny it.  My morning has swung from depressingly pensive to positively euphoric in record time.

“Need a hand with anything today?” I ask Dad.

“Got a wedding anniversary cake saved for you,” he says pointing.  “The Maplegates.  Make it pretty.”

Baxter waits until Dad heads out to the shop front with a tray of bread before tossing my old apron at me.  “Here ya go, Pretty Peety.”

“What—?”  I wrinkle my nose at the stiff, pristine fabric in my hands.  “You guys washed my apron.”  I’ve never seen it so clean, and it smells like… cedar?

“Didn’t think you’d be using it again, did we?” he answers gruffly, getting back to the croissants he’d been in the middle of laminating.

“Right.”  I pull it on and quickly tie the strings tight.  Double knotted.  “Mom likes to keep things tidy.”  We both ignore the disaster that is the breezeway… and all the other exceptions to that statement in the residence upstairs.

“Yeah, well.”  At least Bax doesn’t try to cover for her.  “Dad put a stop to that real quick.”

“My T-shirts?” I guess.

“Yeah.  Sorry we couldn’t save your smalls.”

“I think I’ll live.”  I spread my hands over the counter space in front of me: I’m about to mix up some frosting.  I never thought I’d be doing this again.  Just… wow.  I’m grinning as I pull down my favorite mixing bowl and locate the rubber spatula that I’ll need.

“So…” Baxter drawls.  “You and Katniss Everdeen.”

“Yeah,” I answer guardedly.  I know he’s going to be an ass, but my good mood doesn’t budge.

“Are you guys _ever_  gonna suck face on camera?”

I bark out a laugh and roll my eyes.

“Because, you know, you’re seriously screwing things over for the rest of us, Mr. Gentleman,” he mocks.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Sensitive?  Your Madge cookies demanding a bit of respect now?”

“Shut up, peon, or I’ll tell your little girlfriend about that naked picture you drew of her back in ninth grade.”

“I drew no such thing.”  Well, okay, maybe I had, but I’d burned it the instant I’d finished it and no one – I mean _no one_ – had seen it.  Besides, that had been back in _eighth_ grade.  Bax is just fishing for incriminating information.

“Maybe.  Maybe not.”  He smirks.  “Maybe you’re not the only one who knows what to do with a pencil.”

“Yeah, but Duff isn’t an ass like you, and since you never did figure out which end is the pointy one, your threats are weak.”

“We’ll just see about that.”

I viciously – and with great relish – expose his deepest, darkest secret: “You’re just panicking because my girlfriend can kick your ass.”

“In your dreams.”

“And a pleasant one it was.”  I continue with my preparations, moving on to assembling ingredients.

Baxter shakes his head.  “Damn, Peety.  Where’s all this attitude coming from?  The Games turn you into a real man?”

I pause with the bag of sugar in hand.  I think of a sword, grating against my thigh bone.  I remember clutching Katniss’ sheath of arrows, preventing her from turning into the monster that the Games are designed to make us all become.  I recall the kiss of an arrow passing two inches from my face as Katniss had fired on the mutts.  Katniss’ boot in my hand as I’d thrown her up on top of the Cornucopia, knowing there was no guarantee she’d be able to reach back for me before the mutts tore me to pieces.  Wrestling with Cato as I’d bled out.  Arguing with Katniss, insisting that she take my life so she could go home.  Losing my leg, losing our freedom, losing our right to decide our own future.

Children don’t survive stuff like that.  Am I a real man, Baxter wants to know?

“And then some,” I answer somberly, sadly.  Suddenly, it seems so wrong to be happy that Katniss and I are friends, that we’ve taken even one good thing away from the horror.  But, if I could give it back, I would.  I’d erase the Games.  Let children be children.  That’s more important than Katniss’ trust… isn’t it?

The door separating the shop from the kitchen opens and I lunge gratefully at the distraction.  Without turning, I ask, “Hey, Dad.  Which anniversary is it?”

I reach up to the cupboard above my head where I know that a piece of yellowed paper has been tacked on the inside surface of the door listing all the color combinations and decorative themes for each anniversary year.  It’s a system we’d come up with to make sure every anniversary cake varies from the previous years’.  It’d gotten us a lot of repeat business, too.  In fact—

“Whoa, Mom, what—?”

That’s all the warning Bax can give me before something slams into my lower back, shoving me hard against the counter and ramming the wooden edge into my hipbones.  Pain explodes.  Front.  Back.  Everywhere.  I brace myself over the cake out of reflex.  I know it’ll only be worse for me if I waste product.

_Shit._

I squeeze my eyes shut and cough out a breath.  Shit that hurts.

It takes me a moment and three breaths for the shock to fade enough for me assess the point of impact: kidney shot, left side.

“Mom—” I gasp, raising my arm as I turn in anticipation of a follow-up blow.

“What is wrong with you?” she hisses furiously.  “Bringing trash like her in here?  And that—that display!  All of Panem saw that, you worthless moron.  We’re the laughing stock of town.”

I flinch back along the counter as she advances on me with the rolling pin.  My artificial leg slips out from under me and I bang into the edge of the counter.  It’s a direct hit to the screamingly tender flesh she’d just struck.

“You idiot!  You mentally defective waste of space!  Stop thinking with your—”

At this point, she waves the rolling pin in front of my face and I do something I’ve never done before: I reach out and grab it, halting its menacing progress.

I think I see Bax stiffen out of the corner of my eye, but all I really focus on is the flour-coated rolling pin.  I don’t even hear what my mother is saying.  Her lips are moving and spittle lands on my chin, but I can’t be bothered to listen to her.  I reaffirm my grip and wrench the implement from her grasp.  

She’s yelling at me now, no longer caring if there are customers out front.  I don’t make an effort to pay attention to her words.  They’re only insults.  And who is she insulting?  She doesn’t even realize that the boy she hadn’t even bothered to waste a goodbye on doesn’t exist anymore.

I stare at the rolling pin, remembering being threatened with it time after time.  I remember being struck in the shoulder, the hip, the back.  Never hard enough to bruise but definitely hard enough to hurt.  Yes, this rolling pin and I are frequent acquiantances.  I can’t even being to tally up each instance of fear associated with this thing; there are just too many of them.

I hate this rolling pin, I realize.

My fingers curl even tighter around its girth.  This little _stick_  makes me sick.  I’ve known pain and humiliation and terror the likes of which this bit of wood and the woman who wields it can _never_  match.  I glower at the utensil in my grasp and I suddenly know just what to do with this pathetic, insignificant, and insufficient instrument of misery.

I haul back and send it flying across the room.  It strikes the wooden barrel that we keep flour in and breaks one of the wooden slats before bouncing and clanging off of the stone floor.  White dust puffs out, hissing in the sudden silence.

My dad bursts into the kitchen, still clutching a customer’s order in hand, crumpling the paper bag in his fist.

His lips move, but I still can’t focus on anything except the soft, powdery kiss-hiss-shush of flour spilling out.  I look from my dad to Baxter, who is standing gaping at me.  I look at my mother, who is staring at the broken barrel.

“I’m done,” I tell them.  I head for the door.  It’s not until I’m limping unevenly down the steps that I realize I’m still wearing my apron.

Well, I guess I’ll keep it.  Better that than let it sit in a cedar chest until it rots, right?

Someone is shouting behind me, but I keep moving, following in the wake of Katniss’ footsteps, tracing her path away from here.  Then a clamor of hard-soled shoes on wooden steps and a hand on my arm has me spinning around.  I lunge, fist raised, arm swinging.  Baxter would have gotten slugged in the face if he hadn’t jumped back at the last second, his hands raised in surrender.

“Hey.  Hey, hey, it’s just me.”

It looks like him, but it sure as hell doesn’t sound like him.  Baxter never sounds this… like this.  About anything.  Ever.

He regrets.  “I’m sorry I didn’t—”

“What?” I ask.  My voice sounds like it’s coming from far away, like it’s been dragged over gravel through a hailstorm of brimstone.  “Didn’t do _what?”_

He drops his arms, defeated.  “Goddamn, Peet.  I had no idea she was gonna lose her shit like that.”

I stare at him.  Part of me doesn’t want to understand.  The rest of me knows it’s unavoidable.

He stumbles on, “I mean, yeah, she was pissed last night when she saw Katniss kiss you during the recap but… damn it, I had no idea she was gonna haul off and… I mean, that was way over the top even for—”

I look away.  “I don’t want your excuses.”

“No.  I guess not.”  He shuts up.  The wind ruffles his unwashed hair.  There’s flour stuck in his beard stubble.  I can hear the sounds of footsteps around the corner on the main street.  Someone slams a door, opens a window.  A dog barks.

Baxter takes a deep breath and ventures, “Are we done, too, Peet?  You and me?”

I stare at him.  He’s a bossy, self-important shit, but he’s my brother.  I shake my head.  “Come by on your day off,” I tell him, “so I can kick your ass.”

“Done,” he agrees and reaches out a hand for me to shake.  When I take it, he pulls me close and claps me on the shoulder.  “Now, what the hell are you still doing here putting up with this bullshit?”

With a nod, I turn on my heel and make my way to the Seam.  I guess people stare.  I don’t really notice.  I pass by the camera crew; they’re camped out across the lane from Katniss’ old house.  I mechanically jog up the steps, trip, and nearly fall flat on my face.  Thank God for the post being right there.  I earn myself a couple of splinters when my hand slams against it, but I retain a sliver of dignity.  At least I’m standing upright when Katniss pulls the door open.  She looks surprised to see me, but doesn’t call out.  Maybe because we’re being filmed.  Maybe because she’d seen me stumble up the steps from the window.  Who the hell knows.

“What’s wrong?” she demands softly as I cross the threshold.

“Huh?  Oh.  They didn’t have anything for me today,” I lie.  I hear the words coming out of my mouth.  I’d promised Katniss I’d always tell her the truth.  I’m aware of this, but I can’t stop myself.  “You and your mom need help with anything here?”

Katniss hooks her hand around my elbow.  “Peeta.  You’re wearing your baking apron.”

That’s right.  I am.  I look around as if I’ll find answers hanging on the dust-grey walls.  Mrs. Everdeen stands in the doorway to the kitchen.  I think I smell something green simmering on the coal-burning stove.

Katniss pulls me away toward the stairs and I let her lead me up to the second floor.  There are two battered pallets laid out on the floor.  Is this Katniss’ old room?  I’m glad she doesn’t have to sleep here anymore.  This place sags under the weight of too many nightmares.  I can practically taste the hopelessness in the air.

“Peeta.”

I focus on her, on the feel of her hands on my shoulders.  Am I shaking or is she?  “I’m okay,” I tell her.

“Stop lying to me.”

“I can’t help it.”  I feel oddly disconnected from everything.  I guess what I want is to _be_ okay.  If you say a lie enough times, it becomes real eventually, doesn’t it?

“What happened?”

“Oh.  Um, I left the bakery.”

“You… left?”

I study her scowl for a long moment.  “Yeah.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

I shake my head slowly.  No, I do not want Katniss to know about that.  Not any of it.

“Okay,” she relents.  I hadn’t pushed her to tell me about her nightmares; she isn’t pushing me to talk about my family.

I clear my throat.  “You and your mom need a hand today?”

“Sure.  Um, do you want to rest your leg first?”

I shake my head again, faster this time.  I don’t even feel the ache in my leg although it must be there.  I don’t feel much of anything, actually, except for the slow, hot throbbing in my lower back.  I have to look down in order to confirm that Katniss’ hand is gripping mine, that my fingers aren’t crushing hers.

“I think I picked up some splinters,” I recall.  I concentrate on my hands, but I can’t really feel more than the warm, pervasive sting of scraped skin.

Katniss blows out a breath and opens up my hands, lifting my palms into the light.  The left one is a bit raw-looking.  I see a few dark, thin bits of wood embedded in the flesh.  They remind me of the barrel I’d just broken.  I recall the pig pen fence Baxter had pushed me into years ago.  I’d shown Katniss how to start a fire at the Training Center.  Huh.

“Okay.”  She says at length, “Wait here.  I’ll go get some stuff.”

I consider sitting down on one of the mattresses, but I honestly don’t want to bother with standing back up again.  I pace over to the window, tilt my head against the warped casing and peer through the thick, opaque glass.  Yup.  It looks like the camera crew is still across the street… and moving in.  I can hear the sound of high heels on the rickety porch, a series of brisk knocks upon the door, and the squeal of hinges.

“What?” Katniss’ voice drifts up from downstairs.  Her guarded tone makes me smile.  God, she really does hate people.  “I’m busy.  If you need help with something, I’ll get my mom.”

“Oh, but we were just wondering—”

“Mom, you have a patient!”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud, but I can’t keep it all down.  I’m still chuckling squeakily when Katniss clamors back up the stairs.  Seeing me giggling in a very unmanly manner by the window, she shakes her head with exasperation.

“They are persistent,” I observe.

“They’re pests.”

I don’t disagree.

Katniss presses a jar of ointment into my uninjured hand and, pinching a sewing needing between her middle and ring fingers, unlatches the grimy window and shoves it open.  “I need the light,” she explains with a brief, apologetic look.

“Okay,” I agree, knowing that the reporter downstairs and her team will capitalize on this quickly.

“Hand,” she instructs and I lift my afflicted palm up for her inspection.

She bows her head to assess the damage and I find myself breathing in the morning breeze as it sifts through her braided hair.  The wind smells like her, like…  “Katniss.”

“It’s sterilized,” she mutters.

It takes me a second before I figure out that she’s referring to the needle.

“And the ointment will keep out infection, but you have to leave it on.”

“Okay.”

Standing here with her in the light from the window, I feel the pieces of myself falling into place one by one.  “You can’t go back to the bakery today,” she warns me.

“That’s fine.”  I might _never_  be going back to the bakery and that’s not fine, but that’s just the way it is.

Katniss works in silence until she has picked and poked out every last splinter of wood, tilting my hand this way and that in the light to check for anything she might have missed.  She scoops a dollop from the tin before setting it aside on the window sill.  A smile stretches my lips as she massages the ointment into my skin.

“You’d make a good healer,” I tell her.

“Right up until I puked on someone’s burn blisters or something.”

“You didn’t puke on me in the arena.”

“It was a near thing.”

I reach up with my uninjured right hand and tuck an escaped lock of hair behind her ear.  I chew on the jumble of words that tumble and slip through my thoughts.

“What?” she asks in that defensive tone, her chin jerking slightly to the side.  I must be smiling too much; she’s getting suspicious.

“I’m trying to figure out how to tell you something,” I answer honestly.

Her wry expression melts into a disbelieving smile.  “What’s that?”

“I’m pretty sure I would have professed my undying love if you’d puked on me.”

“…what.”

I laugh.  “You don’t think that’s romantic?”

“Me throwing up on you?  Not particularly.”

“Huh.  Must be a guy thing.”  I waggle my brows.

Katniss playfully bumps my shoulder.  “The next time I get food poisoning, you’ll be the first to know.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”  I wrap my arms around her waist and hold on to more than just her word.  It’s kind of amazing that she doesn’t resist.  She’s not even surprised by my random exuberance.  She just sighs, shakes her head, and leans her chin on my shoulder.

“You’re a cuddler,” she accuses.

“Took you long enough to figure that one out.”  I nuzzle her hair.  “Are you complaining?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

I snort.  “Well, let me know when you do.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yes, Peeta’s mother is not portrayed kindly at all. Since I’d established this in Courage and Sacrifice, I figured there was no point in trying to dial it down here. Through Baxter and Duff we will get a broader perspective on Peeta’s relationship with her.
> 
> I currently do not have anything written regarding Mr. Mellark’s take on all this; I see him as missing Peeta a lot but, at the same time, he’s relieved that his youngest son is now at a safe distance, living his own life in the Victor’s Village... but who knows, maybe I’ll wedge a scene in this fic where Peeta and his father actually sit down and talk... but to be honest, I have a hard time seeing how that would go well. (I mean, Peeta did pretty much tell all of Panem that his mother wasn’t his father's first choice for a wife, right? While Peeta and Katniss are in the cave in the Arena, doesn’t he spill the beans? It’s been a while so I may not be remembering that right. Hrm.)
> 
> Anyway, I intended for this to be one of the worst injuries Peeta has received from his mother. I don’t want you to think she was this terrible all the time, but we know from canon that she has no patience for mistakes.


	7. The Truth

 

**Peeta's POV**

 

I’m still smiling when Katniss puts me to work stirring a simmering pot of burbling paste on the stove.  “What’s in this?” I ask Mrs. Everdeen.

Katniss doesn’t look up from grinding some sort of bark with the mortar and pestle.  “Goat spit, dog hair, frog eyes, and—”

“Never mind!” I interject.  I can’t tell if she’s teasing me or not.  Just in case she isn’t I hope the goop is for topical application only.  Eugh.

“Oh, Katniss,” Mrs. Everdeen laughingly muses a moment later, “it’s nothing like that.”  I am so relieved by Katniss’ unrepentant smirk that it’s kind of embarrassing.  Mrs. Everdeen lists the ingredients, which are completely mundane and non-disgusting.

“What’s it for?” my curiosity drives me to inquire next.

“Bruises and sore muscles.”

I blink.  “People come to you for that?”

“Well, not just for that.  In the case of serious injuries, some muscle relaxant often helps the patient rest, and that’s really the best medicine in most cases.”

We leave shortly after Prim comes home from school to look after her goat and make cheese.  I walk with Katniss back to the Victors Village, holding her hand and trying not to wince as each step jars my lower back.  I’m pretty sure that’s not just muscle and skin I can feel throbbing: it’s my actual kidney.  Ow.

“I’ll cook tonight,” Katniss offers, pulling me up the steps and through the front door of her house.

I shouldn’t smile at her blatant disregard for the cameras and what assumptions get made about us; under the circumstances, it’s not funny.  I know this, but how can I hide my helpless elation?  Katniss Everdeen wants me with her.  Just that.  If I can have that for now, then I’ll deal with Snow… later.

“Sit.”

“And do what?” I tease.

She shrugs.  “Draw something.  Where’s your stuff?”

I tell her and she holds up a hand to keep me from dashing off after her.  I watch through the living room window as she jogs across the lawn, leaps up the steps to the porch, wrenches open the front door, and invades the house that the Capitol had foisted upon me.  The Capitol interviewer tries to waylay her with questions, but Katniss doesn’t even break stride.  She hugs my sketchbooks to her chest on the way back as if protecting my stupid doodles from mortal peril.  No one has ever treated my drawings with such care.  I feel my jaw muscles clench in response.

“You should just keep one of these here,” she informs me, handing them over once she sweeps over the threshold.

“Should I?”

“Yes.”  She doesn’t pause on her way to the kitchen and, even though I know the wooden chairs around the table aren’t going to be kind to my back, I follow her.

“Give me something to do,” I say, placing my supplies on the tabletop.

“Draw.”

I snort.  “I’ll make some cookies.”  I can do that with just one hand.  I have before.

Motion through the kitchen window alerts me to the camera crew closing in.  Can they hear us through the window?  I assume they can just to be safe.

Katniss sighs with exasperation and for a moment I think she’s seen them, too, but when I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, I catch her fighting a slight smile with only moderate success.  “Cookies?  Really?”

Ah, so that sigh and this smile are mine as well, eh?

Maybe I do have an effect on her.  Of some kind or other.

I ask through a crooked grin, “You have any ginger or molasses?”

She gives me an incredulous look as if to ask if I’d really just asked her that.

“Well, I wasn’t going to stick my nose in your pantry without permission,” I return, reaching for the knobs on the folding doors.

“You should sit.  You’re limping.”

“Sitting is boring.”  She doesn’t argue so I dare to add, “Besides, I promised Prim a cookie encore.”

Katniss groans, shakes her head, and starts peeling a potato.  Maybe she thinks I’ll give up if she doesn’t encourage me.  Well, good luck with that.

Her kitchen isn’t stocked with gingerbread fixings, but I manage some raisin-cinnamon cookies.  While Katniss puts a roast and vegetables in a pot for slow-cooking, I drop the last spoonfuls of cookie dough onto the baking sheet.

“You’ll spoil her, Peeta,” Katniss says.

“Then tell her you made them,” I retort, thoroughly enjoying myself, “and it’ll be your fault.”

Katniss makes tea while I tidy up the baking items I’d used.  I try not to be obvious about tracking the camera crew, but I feel my shoulders loosen up when they move away.  Presumably to pack up for dinnertime.  I’m just glad to have a few minutes to catch my breath.  It’s been a long day.

We sit at the table and I sketch while Katniss spins her tea mug around and around and _around._

“Speak,” I order.  “Before your head explodes and you get random ideas all over my picture.”

She snorts and spins her cup again.

I lean over and poke her forearm with the dull end of the pencil.  “The cameras have backed off.  Come on.  Out with it.”

With a shake of her head, she glares at the kitchen window.  Ah, of course she’d noticed them.  Of course.  I mean, she’s a hunter.  Hello.

After an additional moment of silence — probably just to prove that I can’t _make_  her talk to me — she murmurs, “I just never thought this would happen.”

“Hm?” I prompt.

“My mom and Prim.  Before I left… things were different.  It’s been Prim and me for years, but now…”  She blows out a breath, ruffling the hair hanging in her eyes.  “I thought I’d come back and everything would be, you know, normal.  Again.”  She concludes forlornly, “Haymitch was right: the Games change everything.”

I don’t say that maybe it’s better that her mother and Prim have each other now.  It’s better if the people she loves keep a little distance from her given how nasty Snow is and the act we have to put on for all of Panem.  I think her thoughts mirror mine because she adds, “I don’t think I can tell my mom why we have to do this.”

“I know,” I sigh.  Not that I’d rather be anywhere else, but I wish Katniss would invite me over, sit me down at her kitchen table, and watch me sketch because she wanted me here, not because of how it might look to the Capitol if she didn’t.

I sketch until the smell of warm cinnamon calls for the cookies to be taken out of the oven and set aside to cool.  In the process, I _accidentally_  drop one on the table in front of Katniss.  “Whoops.  I guess I’ll have to throw that one out.  Unless you want it?”

“You eat it,” she dares, so I drop another in front of my seat.

“Uh oh.  Looks like I’ve already got one, so I guess that one’s all yours.”

With a put-upon sigh, she picks the still-soft, steaming cookie apart, popping each morsel in her mouth.

“Did they turn out okay?” I check needlessly.  Her reluctant smile more than reassures me.

Prim’s approving grin after dinner is the final word on the matter, though, and Katniss huffs irritably, probably because she knows there’s no way for her to discourage me after this.  I grin broadly all the way through clean-up.

“You can shut up about it now,” she grumbles as the dishwater swirls and gurgles down the drain.

I laugh softly.  Only Katniss would _hear_ a smile.  “Hey, I bake prime cookies.  I don’t expect you to resist them.  You’re only human, after all.”

“And you’re such hot stuff,” she drawls flatly.  I don’t say anything, but my insanely wide grin speaks for me.  She glances at me, rolls her eyes, and smacks me on the arm with a hand towel.

“Whoa-ho!” I whoop, winding up the damp rag I’d been using to dry the supper dishes.  I snap it at her hip.

She yelps, scoops out a handful of dirty bubbles from the basin and splatters them across my shirt.

“Bullseye,” I assess dramatically.

“Well, you told me to shoot straight.”

“Ha.  Shoot this!”  I could probably blame Prim for what I do next; she’d been the one to plant the idea in my head yesterday.  I could probably blame it on a lifetime of living with Baxter, who loves to get me in headlocks, or on years of dodging Duff, who pounces more often than not whenever I head down the hall to take a leak.  I could probably blame anything or anyone I wanted to, but the fact of the matter is that I just can’t resist.  I want her too much and, since I shouldn’t kiss her, I go for the next best thing.

I crouch, lunge, grab, lift, and—

“Peeta!  Put me down!”

I chuckle, locking one arm behind her knees as she dangles over my shoulder upside down.  “Say ‘please!’”

I just hope she says it fast; I haven’t regained enough strength from our ordeal in the games to keep this up for long.

Katniss wiggles furiously and her hip bumps my jaw and ear.  I wrap my other arm around her thighs to keep her from tumbling sideways into the table and chairs.  “Let me go!”

“Still waiting for that ‘please,’” I taunt.

“I’ll give you a spanking!”

“Will you now?”  How intriguing.  If only Mrs. Everdeen and Prim weren’t in the next room or I could have explained to Katniss just how much of a threat that wasn’t.  Not even close.  I cheerfully admit, “I guess I deserve it.”

“Peeta!” she growls-on-a-laugh and I press my smile into her fabric-covered thigh.  This is great.  I should pick her up and toss her over my shoulder more often.  I recklessly decide that I will.  Just as soon as I get back in shape.

And then she fights back.  It’s just a smack, a silly, open-palmed strike with the heel of her hand, but it hits me low in the back on my left side.

_Shit-Goddamn-ow!_

I try to bite back the sharp cry of agony, but some of it ekes out between my clenched teeth.  My legs fold and, holding onto Katniss for dear life, I crash to the kitchen floor.  My knees scream.  My back howls.

“Shit,” I pant heavily, my head spinning and white-hot waves of pain rippling through my entire body.  “Shit, I’m sorry.  Are you okay?”

Blinking furiously, I focus on setting her down gently, on keeping my trembling hands as steady as possible.  My back muscles twitch and cramp with every heaving breath, every minute adjustment of my arms.  Oh God, that hurts.

“Peeta?” she breathes and I feel her hands cup my face.

“Hey.”  I try going for humor.  “Don’t send me back to the bear cave for a time-out.”

“I’m not going to—”  She bites off her protest and sidesteps my attempt at distraction.  “What did I do?”

“Uh, you threatened to spank me.”  I throw in a charming grin and endeavor to get my eyebrows to wiggle suggestively.

She ignores the innuendo.  “I hurt you.  Where?”

“I’m fine.  Just tripped and—”

“Show me, damn it!” she rasps, and I can’t ignore the tension in her voice.  I’ve scared her.

I feel like ten kinds of asshole but I can’t let her see—  “I told you I’m fine!”

“Don’t,” she bites out almost inaudibly, “lie to me.”

“Don’t,” I wheeze desperately, “make me.”

She blinks once, her expression blanking.  Oh, shit.  She’s strategizing.  “Fine.”

And then she’s standing up, bending over me and yanking my shirt up off my back.  I scramble to shove myself away, out of her line of sight, uncaring that I’ll probably smash into the cupboards and black out from the pain.  I just can’t let her see—!

“Oh, my God.  Peeta!”

Too late.

Shit, shit, _shit._

“It’s no big deal.  I’m fine.”

“Mom!”

As if this day couldn’t get any worse.  “No!” I hiss, grabbing her arms to keep her from lunging into the living room.

“Stop,” she commands me, frowning at me like I’m being unreasonable.  “It looks _bad._   Let her see it.”

I shake my head.  “I’ve had worse.  It’ll be fine.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Ouch.  I guess that’s what I get for being such a damn good liar… most of the time.  “I’m serious.”

“Yeah.  I know.  You believe your own bullshit, but I don’t.”

Mrs. Everdeen steps over the threshold and I know it’s too late to stop this train.  “Are you two trying to knock the house down?”

“Look at his back,” Katniss orders her and belatedly adds, “please.”

“That isn’t necessary,” I grit out, unwilling to give in just yet.

“Hey,” Katniss rasps, searching out my frustrated and roving glare.  “I’ve got you.”

Goddamn it.  How does she know what those words do to me?  I sigh and drop my face into my palm.

“Stand up, Peeta.  Let me see what my daughter’s done to you.”

Although I have zero interest in explaining the origin of the bruise on my back, I can’t stand the thought of anyone thinking Katniss could have caused it.  Never in a million years would she have done something like this to me.  Never.

“It’s not Katniss’ fault.  She just, um, found it.  Just now.”

“Still,” Mrs. Everdeen insists, “up you go.”

Katniss braces herself and I take her hands so she can help me stand.  If not for my stupid leg, I wouldn’t have needed the help.  I’m so exhausted and furious and hurting that it’s all I can do to keep the string of curse words jammed in my belly.  It’s all I can do not to shove these well-meaning hands aside.  At least when my dad or Duff or Bax had given me an ice pack or boiled water for washing away the blood and possible infection, they’d had their own guilt to keep them quiet.  I think it’ll break me to hear or see pity from Katniss.

I angrily brace my hands on the edge of the counter and hold still while Mrs. Everdeen lifts up the hem of my shirt.  Katniss’ fingers tighten around my bicep as she gets an uninterrupted view of it.

Thank God Mrs. Everdeen is professional about the whole thing.  “I’m going to touch your back,” she warns me.  “Tell me when it hurts.”

As she probes the area, I keep my head angled away from Katniss.  I don’t want to make it seem as bad as it must look, so I grit my teeth and hold out until I see stars.  “There,” I snarl, fighting to keep my balance.

“All right,” Katniss’ mother assesses.  “I don’t think you have any serious internal bleeding, but we’ll keep an eye on it.”

I nod.  Whatever.  I don’t care.  I just want this over with.

“I’ll get some ointment for your back.”

I don’t move as Mrs. Everdeen walks away.  Gritting my teeth as hard as I have been is starting to make my jaw ache but I can’t let myself relax.  If I do, I’ll shatter or rage or – even worse – cry.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Katniss bites out.  Heh.  I’ve pissed her off.  That shouldn’t amuse me, but it does… in some dark, twisted way.

I snort out a disbelieving laugh.  “It’s not going to kill me.  I’m fine.”

“That’s not a reason,” she accuses after a long moment.

I take a deep breath and let it out.  Her fingers are still clutching my arm, her short nails pressing into the sensitive inner flesh.

“You promised me,” she mouths, silent in her fury.  “You promised you wouldn’t lie.”

There’s nowhere to hide.  I bow my head so I don’t have to look her in the eye, so I don’t have to see _myself._   I’ve let Katniss down.  “I know.  I just…”

“What?”

“I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“Well, you have.  Not telling me this – trying to hide it from me – is a big disappointment.”

“No, I mean…”  Goddamn it.  Why doesn’t she see how pathetic I am?  Why do I have to explain it to her?  “I’m away from you for one stupid morning and I get— something like this happens.”

Her next question is soft.  “What _did_  happen?”

On the off-chance that I can avoid it entirely, I mumble, “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters.”  Katniss is convinced of this.  I can feel it when she sighs out a breath and my eyes pop open when her forehead presses against my arm.  Her hand moves down my back to rest just above the source of the angry ache pulsing through me.  “What did she hit you with?”

I could continue trying to resist, but it’ll only piss Katniss off even more.  I don’t want her to be angry with me.  I want her to stay right where she is.  Here.  Holding onto me.  Her hand on my back and the warmth of her forehead pushing through the weave of my old T-shirt.  I confess, “A rolling pin.”

A moment of silence thrums in the kitchen.  I can hear the clock ticking in the living room.  Katniss suddenly announces, “I’m going to break every single one of her fingers with that damn thing.”

I have to laugh.  I have to because I don’t trust myself to do anything else.  When I’ve wound down, I turn toward her a bit and she lifts her head from my arm.

“She should not have hit you,” Katniss stresses softly, her hand still gripping my shoulder and her gaze intense.  “She was wrong.”

I let out a shuddering breath.  “I… I know.”  Her gaze is a force in and of itself.  It drives me to offer, “I took it from her and threw it across the room.”

“The rolling pin?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

I smile weakly.

“We’re partners,” she reminds me earnestly.  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”  Her gaze slips out of focus and I wonder what else she’s blaming herself for.  It’s not her responsibility to take care of me.  I have to learn how to look after myself.  She deserves a partner who is at least that competent.

I shake off her apology with a jerk of my chin.  “I should have been paying attention.  That’s always been my problem.”  I chuckle roughly.  “Even in the arena, I’d start daydreaming and…”

“Peeta.”  Her hands return to my face, framing my jaw.  She is all fire now.  Fierce and burning bright.  “It’s not your fault.  Don’t make excuses for her.”

“Okay.”

Her palms drop to my shoulders.  “Are you going back?” she asks tightly.

“If I said yes?” I probe, wondering at that angry gleam in her eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“Would you try to stop me?”

Her fingers curl a bit as she considers this.  Eventually, she says, “No.  But you have to promise me you won’t trust her.  I can’t—  If she hits you again—”  Katniss stops, closes her eyes, takes a deliberate breath.  “No matter what you’ve done, you don’t deserve that.  Not from her.  Not from anyone.”

When her lashes rise again, I can see that she really, truly, honestly believes that.

“Are you going back to the bakery?” she repeats.

Slowly, I shake my head.  “I’m not planning on it.”

Her relief is almost tangible.  “Okay.”

The warmth of her hands on my shoulders turns back the tide of pain and uncertainty.  I grip the edge of the sink beside my hip with one hand and reach for the tail of her braid with the other.  She doesn’t look aggravated at the gesture, and I don’t want to lose this moment, so I tell her, “I’m sorry I lied.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah.”  I rub the silky strands of her dark hair between my thumb and fingers.  The next part is going to be harder to say, but she deserves to hear it.  “I should have trusted you with the truth.  I mean, I didn’t think you’d, um, say I must have deserved it or anything, but...”  Damn it, I’m screwing this up.  I scrub my palms over my face and spear my fingers into my hair on a sigh.  “I just want to hold my own.”

Katniss’ slight frown is stubborn.  I can see her rejecting my explanation and, somehow, that hurts worse than the actual welt itself.

I blunder onward, “Your trust is the most important thing to me.  Without it, I can’t do this—”  My vague gesture encompasses us, the room, the house, the Capitol beyond.  “So I can’t risk losing it.”

Her expression clears and my shoulders sag with relief.  “You haven’t,” she informs me.  “And… thank you.  For doing this.  I know I couldn’t.”

“I think you could,” I argue, daring to bring my thoughts from the previous afternoon to the fore.  Katniss could be charming for the cameras.  If she had to, I really think she could.  “But it’s my pleasure.”

“So you think it’s fun?”

“Lying?  Keeping up the act?  No.  I hate it, but I guess I’m kinda good at it… and I want to do this for you and Prim.”

Her mouth softens and her lips part.  Suddenly, it doesn’t matter that the Capitol is practically in the room with us, that I’d just exchanged an apology for a few words of gratitude.  It doesn’t matter that we aren’t alone and Mrs. Everdeen could walk in at any moment.  I’m falling into the warmth of Katniss’ eyes and I have to place a hand on her hip to steady myself.  I want her.  My toes, my joints, my _teeth_ ache with it.  The world tilts as I lean toward her, drawn to her lips.

Her breath catches.  She stiffens.

I snap out of it.

Taking a hurried, half step back, I clear my throat and mumble through an embarrassed grin, “So, I guess this means you’ll be up to your ears in cookies by this time tomorrow.  Beware the bored baker.”

She snorts, glancing away nervously as she removes her hands from my shoulders and tucks them under her armpits.  “Um.  If you throw in a couple of cheese buns, I won’t complain,” she graciously relents.

Meeting her sidelong glance, I smile.  “Deal.”

At that point, Mrs. Everdeen reenters the room and places a jar and a roll of linen bandages on the table.  “You need to sleep in a bed tonight, Peeta.  We have one upstairs that isn’t in use.”  She gives Katniss a look.  “There’s sleep syrup in your bathroom cupboard.  Take some – both of you – and get some rest.”

I’m still staring after Katniss’ mother when she wanders back into the living room.  Katniss doesn’t have an answer to my frown of confusion.  Why would Mrs. Everdeen suggest that I use a bed here when I have four of my own across the way?  I thought she wanted me out of this house at night.

“Did you want to take a shower tonight or in the morning?” Katniss asks, looking just as befuddled as I feel.

“Uh, tonight, I guess.”

“Okay.  After that I’ll—”  She gestures at the jar and wrappings.

“Katniss, I can do it myself.”

“I know.  But you don’t have to.”

I guess I don’t.  Not anymore.

 


	8. The First Night

 

**Peeta's POV**

 

I wince as Katniss dabs the ointment onto my tender, shower-warmed skin.

“Sorry,” she mouths.

“It’s just a little cold,” I mutter into the pillow on the bed… my bed… the bed in my room at Katniss’ house.  She’d put me in the one next to hers.  We share a bathroom; one door opens from her side and one from mine – that’s all that separates us from meeting in the middle and bumping elbows as we brush our teeth.  Her mother hadn’t even looked disapproving.

When had that changed?  And how?  Just yesterday evening she’d attempted to railroad me out of her daughter’s house at night and now I have a room here with empty dresser drawers to fill.  What the hell is going on?

Katniss’ gelled fingers brush over my back again and I shiver.

“It’ll get warm soon,” she promises.  I don’t trust myself to speak, so I just nod.  I want to ask her what this is, what we are, but I know that wouldn’t be fair.  Just like I know it wouldn’t be fair to ask her any one of my many questions from the Games:

She protects me, so does that mean she more-than-cares about me?

She’d noticed me in Twelve before we’d ever gotten to the Capitol, but when had that started?

What do I have to do to get her to kiss me again?  No, scratch that.  What do I have to do to get her to _want_ to kiss me?

 _When the cameras leave,_  I promise myself.  When the cameras leave, we’ll figure out what our new normal is.  Maybe I can convince her to let me be a part of it.  If I get my shit together and be a decent partner to her while the media is still lurking around, maybe she’ll say yes and maybe we can… I dunno… be _real._

“All done,” she announces.  I sit up as she reaches for the roll of bandages.  I don’t need them, but I don’t want to ruin my old T-shirt or the bed sheets.  If I were wearing something from the Capitol, I wouldn’t care.  If I were sleeping in my own house tonight, I wouldn’t care.  But I’m not, so I do.

I grit my teeth as Katniss wraps the bandage around my middle, her chin bumping my shoulder as she reaches forward.  I hold my T-shirt up and try not to think about the wave of body heat I can feel against my back coming from her.

“Are you going to take some sleep syrup?” she asks.

I glance at the little bottle sitting on the nearby bureau.  “If you do.”

She’s silent for a long moment as she weighs the ultimatum.  “Okay,” she relents, shocking me.  “A small dose.  Just… if you can’t sleep, you should come through.”

I know I won’t.  I’ll be spending the night right here in this bed even if I end up staring up at the ceiling until dawn.  “Katniss, that would look really, um, bad.”

“Who’s looking?”

“Panem.”

“I didn’t see any camera crews in here.”

“Well, it’s dark, but they could still be filming us.”

She keeps talking as if I hadn’t said anything.  “And nobody cares where we sleep.”

She’s kidding, right?  I hope like hell she’s kidding.  “They care.”  And if we seem a little too eager to be spending the night together, President Snow is going to start picking out the wedding invitations.  She can see that coming, right?  She’s not completely oblivious to how controlled we both are… is she?

I suspect Snow has plans for us and I know we can’t avoid them, but – damn it – I want to see Katniss face them on her own terms, not with her hands tied.  I want that for both of us although I know I’ll do whatever she wants, whatever will keep her and her sister safe.

Katniss tucks the end of the bandage in neatly and tells me I have first dibs on the bathroom, so I brush my teeth with the toothbrush I’d been using downstairs – Mrs. Everdeen must have brought it up here for me, which is yet another implied welcome that I simply cannot fathom.  I finish washing up and then knock on Katniss’ door to let her know the room is free.

I’m careful to close the door behind me before I gingerly lower myself down onto the bed, but a few minutes later, when I reach over to shut off the light, I glance back and see it cracked open.

_In invitation._

No, it’s not.

I tell myself this firmly because Mrs. Everdeen is right: passing out sitting side-by-side on the sofa in the living room is one thing.  Crawling into each other’s beds is another entirely.

My leg twinges, but I leave my prosthesis on.  I know I won’t be comfortable lying on my side or stomach in an unfamiliar room _alone_  if I take it off.  Not that I’m all that comfortable with it on, but...  Eh, screw it.  It’s all in my head and I’m too exhausted to figure it out.

I don’t even remember to take a dose of sleep syrup before I’m out…

…and running through the pitch black mine tunnels.  I can hear the muttations growling at me through the shafts.  They’re above, below, behind, ahead.  I trip, roll to the ground, bash into a mining cart – kidney shot, left side – and shakily pull myself up using the coal-dusted iron rim, but I can’t find my balance.  No balance.  No leg.  My left leg is gone below the knee and I can’t run or hide or fight or—

_“Peeta!”_

_“Katniss!”_

I erupt from bed, twisting in the sheets as I swipe my arm in the darkness, anticipating the stink and slobber and fangs and claws—

…but there’s nothing.  No snarls.  No screams.

I’m alone.  I’m safe.

_It wasn’t real._

I close my mouth and try to calm my breathing.  I focus on the utter silence of my surroundings.  I’m in a room.  My room.  In Katniss’ house.  It’s night.  The world beyond my window is still dark and, for the moment, safe.  I think I’ll take a look at it.  Untangling myself from the bed reminds me of my losing streak at thumb war, but my persistence pays off.  My back throbs and I limp a bit as I cross to the window.

The moon is out tonight and the sky is clear.  A nice night.  I fumble the window latch open until a soft draft dribbles in through the six inches of space between the bottom of the fame and the sill.

No mines.  No mutts.  No danger.  I determinedly do not think of my leg.  That part is real but I have no interest in dealing with it tonight.  Dropping down in a squat, I reaffirm my balance even as I work my muscles.  I stand again, and squat, stand-and-squat.  It’s part of my wrestling warm-up and I know I should do it more often than I have been.  The doctors had given me an exercise routine to follow to make sure I don’t stress my joints or strain any muscles as I adjust to my new leg.  I need to get working on that.  By necessity, I’ve been kind of winging it, but I know that won’t do me any favors in the long run.

I swing my arms left and right, loosening my shoulders and spine.  When I place my hands against the wall and begin to “walk” my way down to the floor, I spot something outside, in the darkness.

Blind panic rips through me.

_Shit._

_Mutts._

_Get to Katniss!_

But even before I can stumble in the direction of the connecting doors, the moonlight defines a human head and a video camera perched on the figure’s shoulder.

Holy shit.  Just how obsessed are the Capitolites with us?  And do they already suspect that I’ve been spending the nights here instead of at my own house?

I watch and listen as the cameraman makes his way along the edge of the house.  His clumsy footsteps echo, bouncing from one wall to the other in the quiet of midnight.  With every stumble, I’m reassured that this is not a regular duty of his.  Maybe this is the first time they’ve filmed our homes at night.  I can hope, I guess, and that’s about it.

Keeping myself angled away from the window and draped in shadows, I follow his progress around toward the back of the house where he meets up with a second person.  Then I lose my line of sight on them.  Well, hopefully, Katniss and I can keep being uneventful during the night so they lose interest and give up on this sort of thing real quick.

But now the worry is there.  I have to care about this for both our sakes because Katniss doesn’t give a shit about what anyone other than Snow thinks.  Suddenly, my number one priority is figuring out how to get over to my house tomorrow morning and change clothes without getting caught.  If I try to sneak over there too early and someone sees me, I won’t have plausible deniability.  If I dare to leave a little later in the morning, I will surely be seen, but I’ll be able to shrug it off by saying that I’d come over early to – I dunno – bake some bread for breakfast.  Which route to take?  My tired mind limps around in circles as I gimp around the room.  Finally, when my left leg has started complaining and my thoughts begin to blur together, I give it up.  The instant I sit down on the bed, I feel wide awake, though.

Great.  So, now what do I do?  I’d go downstairs except that falling asleep on the couch will only put pressure on my back, pressure it really doesn’t need.  And, I should not – absolutely _not_ – go into Katniss’ room despite the standing invitation.  Lying down with her on a warm, comfortable bed… that would be just too much.  I can’t cross that line.  I can’t take that because I know it’ll be impossible for me to go back to sleeping without her.  I’m already a mess just from having her tucked up next to me in a sleeping bag and on a sofa.

Sighing, I reach for the sleep syrup on the bedside table and uncork the bottle.  I dip my smallest finger into the solution to collect just a few drops.  I don’t need to knock myself out for eight hours.  All I need is a little nudge.  I wince at the too-sweet taste of it on my tongue as I suck the medicine off the tip of my finger, then I lie back and wait.

And wait a bit more.

I close my eyes.  Maybe that will help…

…when I open them, I’m not alone.  Someone is lying across my chest.  Katniss?  She’s so heavy.  I hate to move her, but pain is shooting up from the wound in my thigh and roaring in my back.  I gingerly turn us both over, rolling her into my arms and—

Blood.  Everywhere.

_Katniss!_

I can’t see her face for all the blood.  Cold, sticky blood.

_Katniss?_

I wipe at her cheeks and gashed forehead with my hands and, finally, I uncover her eyes.  They are open.  Staring.  Blank.  There is no wall of ice, no immovable stone, no fierce fire.

Grabbing for her jacket, I thrust the fabric aside and place my hand over her heart – there is no beat, no movement, no warmth.

She’s gone.

“Katniss!”

“Shh.  I’m here.  I’m here.”

Someone whimpers and I think it’s me.  Well, I don’t give a damn.  I’m in the midst of hauling Katniss down onto the bed so I can press my fingers to the pulse point in her neck, feel her _warm_  weight against my thighs and chest, look into her eyes and _see_ her looking back at me.

“Are you okay?” I gasp, hiccupping around my uneven breaths.

She nods.  My trembling fingers push her hair back from her forehead, searching for the open wound, but there’s nothing there.  Not even a scar.  I drop my hand and bow my head, belatedly realizing that my fingers have found and curled around her bare knee and my other arm is clamped against the small of her back.  She’s practically sitting on my lap… on the bed.

I gulp and try to squirm away.  “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

I’m not sure I agree with her on that, but I let it go.  “What time is it?”

“A little after three.”

I groan, glancing between the dark window, open bathroom doors, and the soft glow of the bedside lamp before rubbing a hand over my face roughly.  “Damn it,” I complain.

“Do you want me to put more ointment on your back?”

Suspecting that, if I decline, she’ll either leave or try to crawl into bed with me, I nod.  I’m not ready to deal with either of those options yet.  I wrestle the sheet down to my waist and roll over onto my stomach.  Katniss’ warm fingers tug the hem of my shirt up and untuck the end of the bandage.  I arch my back so she can unwind it from around my middle and then cold, slick fingers sweep over me again.  I can’t figure how the stuff can feel like ice when it’s been sitting in a jar on a table at room temperature all damn night.

“Does it do anything other than numb the skin?” I ask.

“It relaxes the muscles,” Katniss answers.

“So I guess that means I’m not pretty yet.”

She’s silent for a long moment.  “No, not yet.”  

I sigh into the pillow and turn my face away from the light.  God, I’m so, so tired.  How much sleep have I managed so far tonight?  An hour at a time before each of the nightmares had hit?  This sucks.

“Did I wake you?” I ask.

“No.”

“Did you take any sleep syrup?”

“…yeah.  A little.  After I woke up the second time.”

Shit.  Her night has been even rougher than mine.  “Third time’s a charm?” I inquire.

“Fourth,” she sighs in defeat.

I hate that sigh.  It’s wrong to hear defeat coming from Katniss.  With a fortifying breath, I look at her over my shoulder and wince at the shadows beneath her eyes, the dullness of her skin, her droopy eyelids.  My heart aches for her.  That must be why, despite all the reasons I shouldn’t, I offer nonetheless, “You wanna stay?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”  Her mother can scold me later.  The Capitol can come up with whatever insinuations they feel like gossiping about.  Katniss needs me.  I’m not giving that up.  Not tonight.  I’ll be stronger for both of us tomorrow.

She rewraps the bandage and I reach over to shut off the light.  Katniss slides onto the mattress beside me and I curl my body around her in a move that feels as natural as yawning, breathing, smiling.  “If you’re cold I can shut the window,” I think to offer, mumbling against her shoulder.

“It’s fine.  You’re warm.”

So is she.

I sleep like a rock until dawn.  When the sun peeps over the horizon, I shift, nuzzling against the long strands of fragrant hair spread out over my pillow.  They catch a bit on my jaw and I’m smiling before I even open my eyes.  My beard stubble is back.  Careful not to wake Katniss, I lift a hand to my chin.  It’s coming in unevenly and sparsely, but I am hairy again.  Oh, thank God.  Not that I’m a big fan of shaving every morning, but for the last week or so I’ve been suspecting that the Capitol really had modified me permanently.

A new day is calling, but I lie there for five more minutes just so I can study Katniss.  She doesn’t frown in her sleep.  Her expression is soft rather than guarded or carefully blank.  I like that she shows this to me.  I like that she’s _okay_  with showing this to me.

I wonder if Gale Hawthorne has ever seen her like this.

_Time to get up._

Yeah.  If I don’t, I’ll just keep thinking and sometimes that’s just not a good thing to do.

I’m careful not to wake her as I slowly roll out of bed.  I’m as silent as I can possibly be as I stump my way down the stairs to the first floor.  Not seeing any cameras or reporters looking on from outside, I make my way over to my house for a change of clothes.

I’m just pulling a clean shirt over my head when I hear a pounding on the front door.  It takes me a while to get down there and, when I answer it, none of the people I’d expected to see standing on my front porch are actually there.

“Duff,” I say.  “It’s six a.m.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you were stopping by after school today.”

“I was.”  His gaze shifts guiltily away.

Ah.  So it’s like that.  Well, I guess we might as well get it over with.  I open the door wider.

“Make yourself useful and get the oven going,” I tell him.  We work in silence.  I don’t even think about what I’m doing and I can tell he doesn’t either.  We just whip up a batch of bread – a half dozen loaves – on autopilot.

“Shit,” I mutter when we’ve got the dough covered and sitting by to rise, “I don’t even know how many pans I’ve got.”

I uncover four.  Duff locates a square cake pan and suggests making some rolls in it.  Works for me.

“I heard about yesterday morning,” he finally says, broaching the topic he’d trekked up here to discuss.  “Bax told me what she did.  I’m sorry I wasn’t there, Peets.”

I clench my jaw and glare at the line of towel-covered bowls.  Even Duff’s personal variation of my name doesn’t really do much to smooth things over.  I’m still furious.  Every apology makes me furious.  At least Katniss hadn’t really known the extent of it until yesterday.  My dad and brothers, on the other hand, have always known exactly what it’s like between my mother and me and _now_ they’re sorry?  It’s a little damn late.

I really don’t want to talk about this.

“You were at school,” I remind him.

“Yeah.”  When I refuse to look at him, he accepts his absolution and volunteers, “Under three weeks left.”

“I’d say you were counting the days, but I don’t think you actually know enough numbers.”

He shoves at my shoulder.  I smirk.

He comes back with “That’s why God gave me ten fingers __and__  ten toes.”

“If you take your shoes off and stink up this place with your rancid feet, I will kick your ass into next month.”

“Hah.  I’d like to see you try.”

“You always have been a glutton for punishment.”

Duff doesn’t reply right away.  I can feel him watching me as I doodle in the loose flour covering the tabletop.  “You’re different,” he announces.  “Um...”

I squint at the clock, not really noticing the time or calculating how much longer the dough needs to be left out.

Duff gives me his verdict: “It’s good.”

I shrug.  I hadn’t shucked off the past for his sake, so I don’t really care if he likes the new me or not.

“Bax is impressed as hell, but you know how he is.”

“Yeah.  He’d rather be coated in egg whites and sugar and baked to a nice golden brown in the clay oven than admit to being impressed by anything his lame little brother does.”

“You’re not lame, Peets.”

“Wasn’t talking about me.”

Duff shoves me again.  “Keep that up and I’m gonna take you out back and show your girlfriend just who the real wrestling champ is.”

I laugh.  “Shit.  She totally owned your glory, didn’t she?”

“And if she weren’t so good at killing things, I’d let her know how much I don’t appreciate it.”

“Don’t,” I cut in.  “Don’t talk about her… kills.  She counts seven, by her reckoning.  Maybe eight.”  I couldn’t have taken down Cato without that shot to his hand.  And, if Katniss had continued hesitating and I’d bled out, she would’ve had to shoot him anyway.  Eight out of twenty-two.  Nine out of twenty-three if I’d died.  That’s more than a third.  Oh, my God.

“Nobody blames her for those.  Or you for yours,” Duff mumbles awkwardly.

“We blame ourselves.  That’s more than enough.  Trust me.”

“How many do you count?” Duff asks and I can tell he doesn’t really want to hear the answer.  He asks because he’s trying to understand.

“Two, officially.”  I swallow thickly.  “Six in total.”

He frowns.  “Six?”

“The girl that came between me and the boy from Four, right after the bloodbath at the Cornucopia; the kid the Careers killed before they found me at the river; the girl a little later on that same night while I was supposedly tracking Katniss; Bobry, the boy from Three—”

“You weren’t even there for that one,” Duff objects.

“But I knew he was gonna die.  The Careers didn’t have much use for him after he reset the mines.  I knew they were gonna kill him, and I didn’t even try to help him out.”  I inhale shakily.  “So, yeah.  I count him as one of mine.  Even though I wasn’t there.”

Duff stares at his clasped hands.

I finish the count, “The girl from Five and Cato, from Two.”

“Those berries killed the girl, not you,” Duff argues quietly, “and the mutts killed that Career.”

“They died as a direct result of my actions,” I explain matter-of-factly.  “The other four died because of what I didn’t do.  Same difference.”  Technically, I could also add Glimmer and the girl from Four to my list for the very same reason.  I’d known Katniss was going to drop that tracker jacker nest and I hadn’t done anything to prevent it.

The clock ticks and we sit at the table in silence.  Duff sifts his fingers through the flour and I draw a winding vine pattern in the fine powder until it’s time to put the bread in the oven.

“I couldn’t have done it, Peets,” Duff admits, shoving the cake pan of rolls inside and closing the door.  “The Games.  No way.”

“I couldn’t have done it without Katniss.”

Duff shakes his head.  “I’m not gonna pretend that I know what goes on inside her head – hell, in any girl’s head—”  He shudders dramatically and I grin.  “—but she must think you’re pretty damn great.”

“Naw, not really,” I mutter.  I’d never tell Baxter this, but Duff has always been good at keeping secrets.  Rambunctious but not cruel.  Funny but not loud.  Quiet but not aloof.  I think he’ll understand the situation better than most.  “At my interview, when I said I had a crush on her, I backed her into a corner.  She couldn’t go home without at least trying to save me.  What would people think of her otherwise?”

Duff rubs his chin and squints out the window.  “I’m pretty sure she wasn’t thinking about that when she was in the cave with you, or risking her life for your medicine, or agreeing to go on a damn _date_  in the middle of the freakin’ Hunger Games, or when she was teaching you how to shoot...  Shit, Peets, you just about fell off that damn Cornucopia at the end when you passed out.  It looked like she used everything she had to keep you from pitching over the side.  And I ain’t never seen anyone work so fast on anything as she did when she was fixing that tourniquet.  Didn’t put her jacket back on until she was all done.”

Seriously?  I wince imagining how cold and uncomfortable she must have been.  Despite the embarrassment she must have been feeling from letting the whole country see her in her underwear, she’d made me her first priority.  I shake my head.  I just can’t deal with that, so I have to joke, “Katniss Everdeen, shirtless.  I still can’t believe I missed it.”

Duff laughs.  “Yeah, well.  I’m just saying that might not have been your only chance.”

“It’s cruel to give a guy false hope, doofus.”  I’m a little more than half-serious.

He tilts his head to the side and squints out through the window facing the backyard.  “It ain’t false hope that’s charging over here in a pair of shorts and a tank top.”

“What?”  I lunge for the door before Katniss can barrel through it.  “Hey,” I stall, hoping the smell of baking bread will coax the militant gleam from her grey eyes.  “Is Prim up yet?”

“No.”

I try not to flinch.  Oh, wonderful.  Just great.  We’re back to one-word, bitten-off answers.  I sigh.

“Oy!”  I startle as a dish towel snaps against the back of my head, ruffling my hair.

Duff grumps, “You gonna introduce us or what?”

Oh, right.  “Duff, this is Katniss.  Katniss, this is Duff.  He’s the one with all the self-preservation instincts in the family.”

“I am?”  I think I’ve surprised him.

“You got your ass back to the kitchen instead of standing there posing like a moron the other day,” I inform him, thinking of the afternoon I’d taken Katniss to the bakery to buy her some cookies.

“Oh.  Right.  Well.”

“Stay away from my sister,” Katniss orders, pointing a finger at his chest.

Duff holds up both hands.  “Absolutely.  That dance was her idea, anyway.”

“Doofus,” I interject, “she doesn’t _care_  whose idea it was, so don’t even go there.”

“Huh.  I see how it is.”  He crosses his beefy arms over his broad chest.  I hate being the smallest brother.  It really sucks.  “Blame the Mellark.”

“Blame the one who should know better,” Katniss retorts, looking unimpressed much to my delight.

I smirk.  “It’s an unfortunate, reoccurring theme.”  I give an example: “He should have known better than to let his little brother talk him into using the pig pen for a round of mud wrestling in his underwear back in primary school, but I do believe that happened nonetheless.”

“Except there was no actual wrestling because _someone_  tossed a bucket of cold water on me from the fence and giggled his little ass off all the way back inside… with my shirt and trousers tucked under his arm.”

Grinning, I give Katniss a wink.  “One of my better moments.”

Her silent chuckle somehow gets stuck in her sinuses.  It is the most God awful sound of humor I’ve ever heard.  I love it.

Duff sighs at us, rolls his eyes, and rescues the rolls from burning.  I’m not sure exactly what Katniss had been pissed at me for this morning, but she seems to have gotten over it by the time we take the rolls over to her house.  When my brother stomps through the backdoor, Mrs. Everdeen adds more bacon and another two eggs to the operation on the stove without breaking a sweat.  Everything looks like clear sailing until Prim comes in, dressed for school, and Duff opens his stupid mouth.

“Hey, don’t you look pretty this morning, Primrose!”

Prim blushes and smiles shyly.  Katniss slams the bread basket on the table, but Duff just doesn’t take the hint.

“I bet you’ve already got yourself a boyfriend, don’t you?”

I lurch forward and place my hand over Katniss’ before she can pick up a butter knife from the pile of unsorted place settings.  I still remember that unfortunate mahogany table on the train.

I offer up a warning before Katniss uses my poor, dumb brother for target practice.  “Duff, practice your charm on Mrs. Everdeen if you want to live.”

“Huh?”  When he spies the look on Katniss’ face, he places himself in his seat at the table, the very picture of obedience.  It isn’t an act, either.  Duff has reached the limit of Katniss’ tolerance.  He’ll stay in the safe zone from now on.  He’s dependable that way.

“That sure smells good, Mrs. Everdeen,” he offers with what my dad always calls the Men of Lark smile.  He loves to tell the story of how his father – Whey Ashlark – had won over our grandmother with a single smile.  He swears that all of his sons have inherited it.  I don’t think that’s true in my case though because, hell, it’s never worked on Katniss.

Still grinning and shaking my head at Duff’s bullshit, I turn and find myself face-to-face with the very object of my morose musings.  My hand is still covering – cradling – hers over the pile of silverware and she’s staring at me, my eyes, my mouth.  I study her expression greedily, seeking, searching, hoping, praying…

Her next breath is shaky as she leans away.  The feel of her hand sliding out from underneath mine makes tingles dance up and down my spine.  She turns away stiffly and starts banging around in the cupboards.  Her sudden anger reminds me of the first night I’d spent here on the sofa: her hands had shoved at the sheets and punched the pillow as she’d fought to stay awake, to see me settled in for the night.

I thank whatever higher powers that be for that insight because I can see through her irritation now: the brusque movements and sudden slams only make my smile widen.  Maybe I do have an effect on her after all – something more than just a defense against the horror of our nightmares and meeting Snow’s expectations.  Why else would she be fighting herself and what she perceives to be her own weakness so hard?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I can’t remember if I read this somewhere or what, but I really love the idea of “Everlark” being Peeta and Katniss’ actual married surname (someday), so when I noticed that most surnames in District Twelve have two syllables (or are compound words), I decided to include a tradition where a newly wed couple combines their family names to make a new one (rather than the wife taking the husband’s name or hyphenating). In “Courage and Sacrifice” (Chapter 20), Peeta recalls the apothecary, Mrs. Everner (who I imagine was either Katniss’ maternal grandmother or aunt). Peeta’s dad was an “Ashlark” until he got married and then he became a “Mellark” (perhaps because Peeta’s mother’s maiden name was “Melvin” or something like that). Anyway, I just realized that I hadn’t been clear on that yet and, um, there it is.


	9. The Hero (Katniss POV)

 

**Katniss' POV**

 

“Why did you do that, Mom?”

My mother doesn’t look up from sorting twigs and leaves on the kitchen table of our old home.  Already, the place is looking like a clinic.  The living room has remained pretty much the same except for the disappearance of our family treasures and memories, but a pair of cots has been set up against the far wall.  My parents’ room upstairs has been turned into an attic storage space with dried herbs and other ingredients hanging from the rafters.  The room Prim and I used to sleep in holds only a pair of mattresses and the meager stack of reference books that my mother owns.  The kitchen is now a factory and my mother a machine, turning out medicinal salves, ointments, and teas.

I feel guilty that I haven’t been able to go out to the woods to gather fresh ingredients for her.  It’s been weeks and most of the jars and baskets are getting low.  She’s probably started accepting payment in the form of raw materials.  Well, I guess she can afford to now.  My ability to provide for her and my sister has grown drastically.  We don’t have to trade for vegetables or fabric or soap anymore.  I can buy those whenever we need them.

There are days when I still can’t wrap my mind around that.  And there isn’t a day that goes by that I’m not completely offended by it: I don’t want the Capitol’s charity.  I’ve taken care of my family on my own for years.  The feel of their money in my hand makes me sick with fury and shopping in the Town makes my skin itch.

At the moment, though, what bothers me most is something else altogether.  Something I wouldn’t be mentioning right now if Peeta hadn’t promised to keep the camera crew busy today with an exclusive interview and a lesson in baking.

“Why did you invite Peeta to stay over?” I ask again, hating how confused and grateful I feel.  “Just the other night, you said—”

“That was before I saw what he has to endure from his own family,” she answers tightly.

I frown.  Have I said something wrong?  “Why are you angry with me about it?  If I’d been there his mother never would have had the chance to—”

Splaying her hands over the warped and cracked tabletop, she sighs heavily.  “I’m not angry with you.  Aggravated, yes, because I still don’t think it’s wise for him to be spending the night with you, but he’s Bron’s son and I could never turn one of his boys away.”

“Bron Mellark?” I query, approaching the table on silent feet.  “So you did know each other?”  I recall Peeta telling me that his father had, once upon a time, intended to marry my mother.  I’d just assumed that he was confused and exhausted.  His fever had been so high in that cave I hadn’t really been sure if he’d said anything genuinely true.  Apparently, at least some of it was.  Is.

“Oh, yes.  His name was Ashlark back then.  Bron Ashlark.  We grew up together.  Were friends all through school,” she admits, picking up a twig and examining it.  “Our families expected us to marry.”

I try to understand.  “So…?”

“Peeta could have been my son, if I hadn’t met your father when I did,” she tells me softly.

I flinch toward the window.  I don’t like that idea much at all.  Thinking of Peeta as my brother is just… no.  No.

But… I wonder now if Mr. Mellark – Bron – had come to sit with me at the Justice Building just after the Reaping for the same reason.  Maybe that’s why he’d promised to look after Prim?  Because she could have been his daughter?

That seems… complicated.

“And also,” my mother continues quietly, “because Peeta’s a good boy and he deserves better than to be sent away from the people who care about him.”

“What?”

She sighs.  I don’t mean to exasperate her.  I guess we’re just not good at talking.  It’s been a while since she and I have even attempted to communicate about anything outside of daily necessities.  “You, Katniss,” she explains.  “I can see that he’s important to you.  I still think you’re too young for a boyfriend, though.”

_He’s not my boyfriend,_  I nearly shout, but at the last possible moment, Snow’s words steamroll over mine:

_“I look forward to your reunion with your lover.”_

The president of Panem has declared that Peeta and I are lovers.  I can’t go around trying to argue otherwise.  I can’t risk Prim’s safety.  Or Peeta’s.  I can’t risk losing Peeta.  If the Capitol takes him, I’m not sure if I’ll ever see him again.  Certainly, the boy who gave me the bread will be destroyed by their greed and callousness.  I won’t let that happen.  They’ll have to go through me to get to him and I will _die_ before I let them touch him.

“So,” my mother announces, resuming her task of sorting through the windfall of ingredients on the table.  “I will tell people that he is living with us as part of our family.  We will act as if this is normal and nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not ashamed.”

“You will be when people start whispering about you two, speculating on how much longer it’ll be before you get pregnant, asking Peeta when he’s going to make an honest woman of you.  Is that what you want?” she challenges, her voice winding tighter and tighter until I think she might just choke on it.  “You want your toasting to happen that way?”

“There will be no toasting.  I’m not—” _getting married._   A thrill of fear shoots through me like an arrow of ice.  President Snow has already ordered us to act like lovers in public.  He could just as easily demand more.

My mother sighs heavily.  “Peeta wants to do the right thing, Katniss, but you’re not making it easy for him.”

“Well, I’m not sending him back to his house.”

“What if he wants to go?”

I shake my head.  That’s not possible.  We’re a team, he and I, and we are most vulnerable when we are both apart and in the dark: I never should have sent him on to the river alone that evening in the arena.  I should have gone with him instead of going back to blow up the supplies.  I should have been there and shot Cato.  Then Peeta never would’ve had to suffer in that cave.

But, if he hadn’t, would the Gamemakers have changed the rules in the first place?  Would both of us still be alive today if things had happened differently?

I don’t know.

I just know that I cannot leave him again.  I can’t let Snow take him.  I can’t.

“Katniss, what are you thinking?”

It’s been such a long time since my mother has even asked about my thoughts and opinions that I don’t really know how to answer.  I glance out the window as I gather my words.  I guess Peeta is being charming and witty as I still don’t see any camera crews, but that doesn’t mean anything.  Maybe there’s a camera or a microphone in this very room right now.  It would have been easy for them to plant it; no one stays here at night and the locks on the doors are ridiculously easy to pick.

Eventually, I say, “Get used to him – Peeta.  We’re partners.”

“Oh, Katniss,” she breathes.  Our gazes meet from across the room.  “You’re both so young.  Too young to be making that decision.”

And yet it’s already been made for us.

“Are you sure it’s not just… pressure from the Capitol?”

“There is that,” I admit, and then I think of the bread from long ago, “but he’s saved my life.”  I suddenly think of that moment in the cave when I’d nearly become a monster.  Could I really have killed off all the other tributes just to save his life?  I’m sure I could have, but I hadn’t.  “He saved _me…”_   And I think of how easily Snow could have our families killed.  “…and we need each other.”

Really, when it comes down to it, that’s all that needs to be said.

My mother isn’t happy about it, but I guess she doesn’t have to be.

I jump distractedly from cleaning project to ingredient preparation to house repair.  My focus is shot and I don’t pretend I don’t know why.  When my mother asks what time Peeta will be stopping by today, I tell her: “After school lets out.  Prim is going to help him carry the bread over.”

I would have tried harder to get him to forget about the camera crew and spend the day out here, but I can imagine how badly his back is hurting.  Spending the day baking and bullshiting has got to be less strenuous than trying to straighten this place up.  My entire body is already aching by the time lunch rolls around and I wasn’t the one whacked with a damn rolling pin.

I still want to have a few words with Mrs. Mellark about that, but I know Peeta wouldn’t appreciate it.  It’s not any of my business… unless she tries it again.  After that, all bets are off.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.  Drawing from my supposed inner Peeta, I remind myself that he’s fine.  Everything is fine.   _We_  are perfectly fine.

Well, except for my ear.  That’s never going to be fine again.  I’m going to have to relearn how to hunt. Damn it.  I’m not particularly looking forward to explaining my disability to Gale, either.

I pause with the scrub brush hovering over the soot-stained stones of the living room hearth as I remember the awkward hug Peeta had squished me in when I’d told him.  I hadn’t even seen him that upset over the loss of his leg.

He ought to be upset.  It’s my fault he lost it.  I should have shot Cato and ended the Games sooner.  If only I’d been braver.  If only I’d had a guarantee that Peeta wouldn’t bleed out before the arrival of the hovercraft.  But I hadn’t.  My instincts had been right on that.  From all the years of watching the underhanded dealings of the Gamemakers, some part of me had known better than to take their words at face value.  If I had, Peeta would probably be dead.  If I’d used the arrow from his tourniquet and shot Cato, the hovercraft still wouldn’t have come.  Not until all of Panem had watched Peeta die in my arms.

I hate them so much it _burns._

“Hey, Catnip.”

I almost fall over as I swivel around on my haunches.  “Gale!”  I barely manage to wipe my grimy, damp hands on my grungy trousers before I’m throwing my arms around his shoulders.   He hugs me back before I can overbalance and topple sideways.  Stupid, useless left ear.  I never have a problem with my balance around Peeta.  Maybe because he’s not nearly as mountainously tall as Gale is.

“Did you cut class?” I demand, taking a step back.

He grins.  So proud of himself, the idiot.  “Sure did.  Gotta follow my new role model, Katniss Everdeen, the Hunger Games Victor.”

“One of them,” I mumble, leaning back.

“And where’s the other?” he presses, looking around.  I snatch my hands from Gale’s elbows and shove them in my trouser pockets.  I don’t want to talk to him about Peeta.  Not yet.  It just feels wrong.  “Don’t you guys travel in pairs now?”

With a brief glance, I can tell Gale’s not really teasing.  “Pretty much,” I agree, wondering at the edge in his tone.  “Um, Peeta’ll be here in a bit with Prim.”

“Huh.  Okay, so.  How are you?  Really?”

I blow out a breath, feathering my hair out of my eyes.  How to answer that: I’m gimpy?  Stressed?  Plagued by nightmares?  Constantly watched by the president of Panem?  Unsure of who I am anymore?  “Could be worse,” I settle on saying.

“Right.  You could be dead.  That would definitely be worse.”

I tuck my chin down, offended.  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.  Weren’t you the one telling me I was going to win?”

“Yeah.  That was before Mellark factored himself in and got you into that mess of a showdown with the Gamemakers.”

**_**_“I_**_**  got us into that,” I correct him.

Gales shakes his head woefully.  “Only because Mellark couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut in his interview.”

I shouldn’t be surprised that Gale had figured out Peeta’s strategy all on his own.  After Peeta’s interview with Caesar Flickerman, I’d only seen a threat to the image I’d been trying to project: a good bet and a strong tribute.  I’d been furious until Haymitch had explained it to me, Cinna had concurred, and I’d thought ahead to my theoretical return to Twelve.

Everything could have turned out so different: I could have come home and placed flowers on Peeta’s grave.

“Stop it,” I rasp, jerking my chin away.  I don’t want Gale to see my expression just now.  “It’s done.  Now we’re seeing it through.”

Gale lets out a gusty sigh.  “I still wanna kick his ass for that.”

“No!” I growl.  “He’s a good person.  You leave him be.”

Gale’s dark brows arch over his grey eyes.  “Uh huh.  So that’s how it is.”

I have no idea what he means by that and I don’t particularly want to know.  It’s just as well my mother decides to stick her head into the room.  “Gale!  How good to see you again.  Thank you for keeping an eye on the place for us.”

“It’s no problem, Mrs. Everdeen.”

What?  Has Gale been spending the night here or something?

“I don’t suppose Vick or Rory would like to take over for you once school lets out?”

In other words, once Gale starts working in the mines.  The very idea makes me sick.  How can they expect kids who have lost parents in those mines to ever enter them?

He scowls thoughtfully.  “You won’t be coming back?”

With my mother’s smile, the act begins.  Already, she’s thinking ahead to how people will respond to learning that Peeta lives with me – with us.  She’s laying the groundwork for what will come later.  “Prim and I will be living with Katniss for the time being, but I’d like for someone to stay here at night and come get me if I’m needed.  Besides, I’ll need someone to help me restock ingredients soon.”

I hate that I can’t be the one to do that.  It’s my job and those damn cameras are making it impossible for me to do it.  Well, since the Capitol is keeping me from it, the least they can do is pay for it.  Literally.

My mother doesn’t mention money, so I bring it up.  “We don’t have much to trade except coin,” I mumble, embarrassed.  “Or supplies from the Capitol.  Sorry.”  I know how much Gale hates the Capitol and everything that comes from there, but now that I think about it, there’s a perverse sense of satisfaction in bleeding them just a bit.  Doesn’t make shopping in the Town any easier, though.

Gale nods with narrowed eyes.  He sees the benefits of the arrangement even though he doesn’t really like it, but this isn’t about what’s comfortable for us.  This is about Peeta.  He has to stay with me, so my mother has to live with us to keep gossip from getting out of hand, which means she can’t run the clinic at night and that necessitates hiring an assistant.  We trust the Hawthornes.  Sharing the money from the Capitol with them, even a little bit of it, makes me feel a little less dirty about accepting the winnings in the first place.

“Sure,” he replies at length.  “I’ll talk to my mom about it.  Maybe Rory and Vick can alternate nights.”  When Gale offers to help out with cleaning, my mother puts him to work sweeping up the debris-strewn floor in the kitchen.  Apparently, she’s done sorting for today.

When she heads up the stairs for something, the soft, sniffle-like sounds of the broom stop and I know that whatever Gale’s thinking can’t be good.  I’m right.  He starts singing softly.

“Oh… I once knew a girl from the Seam—”

I groan.  Not the limericks!

He ignores my dismay.  “Who used to catch fish like a dream—”

“Gale…” I growl in warning.  I’ve never heard this rhyme before, but I think I can guess where it’s going.

“But if they got loose, she would hurl abuse—”  He leans around the kitchen doorway and grins evilly at me.  “And my, she was gorgeous but mean.”

“Sit on it and rot,” I grouse, attacking the stone hearth with a vengeance.

Gale laughs.  “You’re up, Catnip.”

“No, I’m not.  Those dumb limericks are your thing.”

“You’re.  Up,” he insists.

I scowl.  “I knew this one boy who was stupid,” I begin.

He waits… and waits a bit more… and then prompts me, “Aaaaand?”

“That’s it.”

He laughs.  “Okay, I’ve got another one—”

I consider banging my forehead against the fireplace.

“One night, I went out to the Meadow—”

I try not to listen.

“The world had been darkened by shadow—”

I start to wonder if it actually might be possible for Gale to come up with a rhyme that isn’t five shades of filthy.

“The moonlight was stark, and there was Mellark—”

I’m going to kill Gale.

I refuse to make eye contact as he leans further into the room and whispers, “And he called out _your_  name with a bellow.”

He ducks the sodden, sooty scrub brush and chuckles merrily to himself as it clatters against the wall and floor.  The sound of his laughter echoing in the kitchen tempts me to go in there and beat him senseless, but I make no move to retrieve my lost weapon.

“You’re up!”

Fine.  Two can play at this game.  I clear my throat.  “I once had a neighborhood buddy—”

“That’s a good start!”

“Whose mind was so filthy and  _muddy.”_

I can hear him grinning.

“He found a new mark, and went after Mellark—”

My lips stretch into an encore of the grin I’d given Peeta’s brothers at the bakery.  “So I beat the oaf ‘til he was bloody.  Now _shut.  Up.  Gale.”_

Gale snickers.

A footstep thumps against the floor and a masculine voice I unfortunately recognize, says, “Katniss?  Did you just make a rhyme?”

I don’t even bother to look up.  Damn it, I should have known better than to leave the front door open.  Especially since my useless left ear is closest to it.  How else could Peeta and my little sister have snuck up on me?  He stomps.  She skips.  The warped and weathered wood of the front porch couldn’t keep their approach a secret if its miserable existence depended on it.

I mumble reluctantly, “A limerick.  It’s the only way to get anything through to Gale because he’s sick—”  At this point, I glare in the direction of the kitchen and raise my voice.  “—in the head!”

“You love my head!” Gale hollers back.

Rolling my eyes, I finally stand up and face the music.  Prim sets down a bulging burlap sack on the sofa and asks where our mother is.  I nod toward the stairs… and then there’s nothing to distract me from Peeta.  Here.  Standing three steps away, cradling two additional sacks in his strong arms.  His blue eyes capture me, lock me in place, force the rest of the room, the world, the universe into a vacuum of nothingness.

His lips curl and part in a winning smile, slightly lopsided and utterly charming.  “What’s a limerick?”

“Allow me to demonstrate,” Gale says, leaning in the doorway separating the living room from the kitchen, posing with the broom held at a cocky angle.

I do not like the look in his eyes at all.  “No, don’t—”

He talks over my objection.  “Our Katniss here’s more than a flower—”

Oh, God.

“And yet she is always so dour—”

Not this one.  Absolutely _not._  “Gale, stop—”

He sings blithely, “Getting lost in the brush—

“Could make her blush—

“But she’d have to be gone for an hour.”  And then he winks.

Winks.

“I hate you,” I inform him.  I can’t bring myself to look at Peeta as I push myself to my feet and stomp into the kitchen in search of the brush I’d tossed.  I can hear Peeta’s slightly uneven and too-heavy gait, following in my wake.

“Huh, so that’s a limerick?”

“Yeah,” I grouch, embarrassed and slightly panicky.  Why had Gale volunteered that one?  And in that sly tone of voice?  Just…  Ugh!

“Okay.”  Half a heartbeat later, Peeta announces, “Um… I think I’ve got one.”

This torture will never end.  I scoop up the cleaning implement lying on the floor and, when I straighten, Peeta’s gaze is on me.  He speaks slowly through that smile of his that never fails to make me forget what I was going to say: “I know of a guy who bakes bread—

“And has not a hair on his head—

“Instead of a shower—

“He sprinkles some flour—

“And crawls his bald ass into bed.”

I can’t help it.  I _laugh._   I laugh until I have to lean back against the wall to stay upright.  I think the house shakes right along with me.  I laugh until tears stream down my face and Gale’s snort of disgust filters through.

“That sucked, Mellark.”

“I’ll keep working on it.”

I take a deep breath, wiping at my cheeks with the relatively clean back of my wrist.  When I can see again, Peeta is still smiling at me from just inside the kitchen and Gale is no longer leaning nonchalantly in the doorway.  In fact, he’s kind of looming over Peeta.

“Right.  You can add it to all the other things you’re working on at the moment,” Gale retorts stiffly, glancing briefly – but meaningfully – in my direction.  “And while we’re on the subject, let me be perfectly clear—”

He points a finger at Peeta’s chest, dead center.  “There once was a guy they called Blondie—”

Oh, my God.  Another limerick?  This is getting ridiculous.

“Who claimed that he loved a girl fondly—

“He screwed up her dreams—

“They all heard his screams—

“But no one has yet found his body.”

My mouth drops open.  “Gale!” I squawk.

He gives me a knowing smirk.  “Just doing my duty, _Cousin_  Katniss, since you haven’t got an older brother to take care of these things for you.”

“I can take care of myself, thank you very much, you ass.”

He shrugs a shoulder and turns back to Peeta, watching him like a hawk.  “Just so long as we understand one another, Mellark.”

Peeta watches him back.  “Perfectly.”

Gale nods once, apparently satisfied with whatever he sees in Peeta’s determined and lock-jawed expression.  I wrack my brain for something to say before the silence buries us all.

Prim trips through the doorway.  “Hey, Gale.”

“Hey, little kitty,” he returns and I wonder when _that_  nickname had gotten started.  But I think I know.  It’s just one more thing that had happened while I was gone.  My gaze flickers to Peeta’s and I’ve never been so glad to have him here.  Everything is different and strange and often unwelcome, but I’m not alone.

“She wants the bread over here,” my sister announces, making her way toward the pantry.

“Great,” Peeta replies, giving Gale a friendly smile and a nod before hauling the two sacks he’s carrying over to where Prim is already dusting off the shelves and laying down fresh linen liners.

“Well, since school’s out, I guess I’ll go mention that deal to Rory and Vick,” Gale muses aloud.  “Walk me out, Katniss.”

Irked by his snooty attitude, I head over to the sink to wash my hands.  “You know where the door is,” I tell him, defiantly.

He does his exasperated eye-roll-and-head-shake thing and reaches over to give a pull on my messy braid before heading out.  With an irritable twitch of my chin, I swing my hair over my shoulder and out of range of more tugging.  He laughs quietly on his way out.  Obnoxious oaf.

“I’ll take over if you want to go out and get started with Lady,” I tell Prim.  She skips out the backdoor and I finish up lining the sparsely populated shelves.  Glancing at the sack Prim had brought in, I gape at the number of tightly-packed loaves.  “You did all this in one morning and afternoon?” I check, astounded.

Peeta shrugs I carefully pull one loaf out and weigh it in my hands.  “They won’t be as good as my dad’s, but… yeah.”

They’re miles better than the drop biscuits we make here in the Seam.  I open my mouth to tell him this when it kind of hits me that the loaf of bread I’m holding was created by this boy.  He _made_ this.  I’ve never made anything before.  Not really.  I’ve hunted animals and gathered plants, but I’ve never actually created much of anything.

“Amazing,” I tell him softly, looking up and meeting his gaze when he reaches out to take the loaf from my hands.

“Not really.”  He looks embarrassed.  The late afternoon night tilts in through the window, setting his hair and lashes ablaze.  I think I see the golden lining of a beard on his jaw.  His lips twitch upward on the right side in a self-depreciating smile.

“No,” I argue.  “It really is.  You know how to do this and it’s… really great.”

Tucking his chin down, he reaches past my head to set the loaf on the shelf.  He opens his mouth and then closes it.  I realize with a small shock that Peeta Mellark doesn’t know what to say.  Neither do I.  He’s standing so close: with less than half a step, I could rest my head on his shoulder.  I could press my nose to the side of his throat like I’d done last night, breathe him in, count his heartbeats through his pulse.

I look away and dive for the next loaf in the sack.

“Um.”  He stops, clears his throat, tries again, “Do you want me to show you?  How to bake bread?”

I blink.

“It’s kind of boring, though.”

I look up at him again.  “No.  I mean, yes, show me.  Sometime.”

He smiles and I swear his eyes are more luminous than the sunlight playing with his lashes.  “Okay.”

When the pantry is stocked, I wave goodbye to Prim through the backdoor.

“See you at dinner!” she calls, her small hands gently milking Lady in the goat’s ramshackle stall.

My mother comes down the stairs just as Peeta finishes folding up the burlap sacks.  “Gale’s going to get back to you about Rory and Vick staying here.”

“That’s fine.  Are you both heading back now?”

I nod and move toward the door.  I’m unsurprised to see a camera crew making their way towards us along the dirt track that serves as my street.  I hang back for a minute on the porch and, when Peeta draws even with me, I brush my fingers against his.  He takes my hand.

“What were they doing?” I mumble.

In a low voice, he answers, “Interviewing Duff.  Prim and I snuck away while he was telling embarrassing stories about me.”

“I can’t wait for the recap tonight.”

Peeta chuckles and moves toward the steps.  “What do you say to sandwiches for dinner?” he proposes loudly, ignoring our Capitol shadows.

“Sure,” I reply indifferently, paying more attention to his alarmingly quick progress down the steps.  He almost stumbles on the last one and winces when he catches himself heavily on his prosthetic foot.  If I pretend I hadn’t seen it, maybe no one else will notice.  I know Peeta would prefer that, so I keep talking, “Why do you ask?”

“Oh.  Um, because I’ve still got four loaves back at the house.”

I sigh out an incredulous breath.  “How did you do that?  Make so many?”

“You get into a rhythm,” he tells me.  “Mix up and knead the next batch of six while the previous six are rising and the first six are in the oven.  Thanks for loaning me the baking pans and the oven in your kitchen.  Couldn’t have done it with just what I have over at my place.”

“Well, it’s not like I was going to use them.”  Today or any other day.

“You might, though,” he muses.  “After baking lessons.”

His enthusiasm makes me smile in response, and it makes me wonder if he’d be as excited about learning how to hunt or swim or climb trees.  Maybe, once the cameras are gone, I’ll find out.  In the meantime…

I glance over my shoulder as we turn the corner on the road to the Victors Village.  We only have an instant of privacy – that’s all the slight rise will afford us – so I quickly tug Peeta toward the side of the road and into the cluster of trees that separates the village from town.

“Katniss?” he hisses.

“Shh.”

I belatedly realize that my shushing him is pointless.  He crashes through the brush so loudly I’m sure they must be hearing this racket all the way down in the Seam.  I pull up and turn to look at him.  His face is flushed and his eyes are wide.

“Watch where I place my feet,” I instruct him.  “And roll your steps as best you can.”  Lifting a hand, I demonstrate slowly: “Back of the heel, heel, balls of your feet.  Like this.”  I exaggerate the motions of my next few steps.

“Okay,” he breathes and while it’s not really possible for him manage the level of control needed for his artificial leg to cooperate, he does much better with his right foot.  “Where are we going?” he rumbles softly.

“Here,” I announce, stopping and sitting down on a recently fallen tree.  Peeta hesitates to join me.  When I look up, my breath catches.

He’s titled his face up to the sky, eyes closed, and a soft, genuine smile plays on his lips.  “I haven’t done this since the Games,” he says suddenly.

“What?”

“Just… stand in the forest and breathe.  It’s soothing.”  He inhales deeply and opens his eyes.  I watch his progress as he quietly closes the distance between us and lowers himself to the tree trunk beside me.  “It was while you were still out from the tracker jacker venom,” he explains.  “I was, um, really missing you and being in the forest kind of helped.”

I don’t know what to say so I move my hand closer to his until our fingers brush.  He smiles, and this one makes my chest twinge.  Peeta confesses, nostalgic but confident, “I wanted to tell you something then.”

By his tone, I can tell it’s important.  Maybe I don’t want to know, but he looks like he’d really like to say it.  I gather my courage.  “Tell me now.”

“Okay,” he agrees and he does.

Never in a million years would I have expected to hear what he softly murmurs: a story about a broken fence slat and the unspoken kindness of a stranger – a bacon sandwich and a bruised apple.  “I never thanked Mr. Sherwood for the food.”

I squeeze his fingers, only in that moment realizing that our hands had slid together fully.

“But I wanted you to know about that,” he continues on a near whisper.  “Because that’s why I gave you the bread.  I mean, the bread happened first and this other thing happened a year or so later, but—”  He runs a hand through his hair.  The way the strands catch the sunlight scatters my thoughts even as he gathers his.  “Looking back on it and being on the receiving end, I understand it better now.”  He twists toward me and lifts our joined hands up onto his knee.  I can feel the buckles of his artificial leg through the weave of his trousers.

He describes, “It’s because it’s important to look after each other, even if the other person can’t pay you back.  No, _especially_  if they can’t, because maybe someday they’ll help someone else who needs it.  It’s like ripples of water on a pond and how one drop can eventually encompass the entire surface from bank to bank, you know?”

I do.  I see it now.  Peeta teaches me so many things.  Long ago, he had taught me that hope is real and now he teaches me this: there is goodness in the world.  One act of kindness has the power to spill into the future, pouring its legacy into the lives of others.

“So,” he battles on, his voice uneven, “it’s okay for you to let me help you sometimes, Katniss.  It’s not a debt or anything because I know you’ll go on to help others, and that’s more important than paying back a favor.  There’s no point in keeping score like that.”

Something in me rebels at Peeta’s philosophy even as I know I’ve already accepted it, at least between him and me. Gale, Prim, my mother… I can’t accept their help gracefully.  But maybe, with Peeta, I can be different.  I can be better.

“Move in with us,” I blurt.

“What?”

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek.  Peeta lifts his hand to my face and brushes the tips of his fingers over my skin as if to smooth away my anxiety.  “Um, stay,” I try again.  “In my house.”

“With you?”

I nod.

He looks genuinely sad when he shakes his head.  “I can’t.  People will talk and it’ll get back to Capitol—”

The Capitol.  I won’t let them have Peeta.  I won’t.

I scramble for an excuse, a reason, anything: “Have you been able to sleep at all without… um.”  I can’t make myself say what I really mean.  I rephrase.  “Can you get any sleep alone?”

He sighs heavily.  “No.”

“We’re stronger when we’re together,” I tell him.  I don’t think I need to explain how important it is for us to be strong.

He looks like he’s barely breathing but I still see stubborn refusal in his eyes.

I fumble onward.  “I know Snow could make us… er—”  I scramble for a word that won’t make me cringe.  “—make things official.”  There.  That was nicely neutral.  “But if my mother and Prim live with us and we don’t try to hide it…  I mean, um.  How much longer can we keep doing this without people finding out?  And it’ll be worse if they catch us.  I don’t want them saying those kinds of things about you.  I couldn’t stand it.”

“Saying what kinds of things?” he carefully probes.

“That you’d—”  I shrug, completely irritated and uncomfortable.  “Uh, fool around with a girl from the Seam.  Because you’re not.  And they just don’t get it.  Idiots.”

“Katniss…”

“Why are you fighting me on this?  Do you want to live alone?”

“I… no.  But my brothers will come by on their days off.”

“And the nights?”

“Maybe we should try to spend those apart.”

I can’t believe I’m hearing this.  Not ten hours ago, I’d woken up to find his chest pressed against my back, his knees tucked up behind mine, and his arm over my waist.  He’d sighed into my hair and it had been so devastatingly peaceful that I hadn’t had the strength to move.  His warmth had lulled me back to sleep and, when I’d next opened my eyes, I’d been alone.

Alone.

Damn it, doesn’t he know how it feels?  That first moment of unfocused eyes and heavy limbs when you’re not sure what’s real and what isn’t?  For one terrible, eternal moment, I’d wondered if I’d dreamed him lying next to me in that bed.

But then, if he wasn’t here, then where was he?

_Gone._

My mind had buzzed with terror: he’d been taken away by Peacekeepers aboard a hovercraft or shoved onto the train bound for the Capitol or I don’t know what but something horrifying that would destroy him and the fear had sent me straight over to his house.  I’d had to see him, prove to myself that he was still here and safe and had damn good reason for scaring me half to death!

Not that I could really say anything with Duff standing there.

Peeta has no idea what President Snow could do to him.  No idea.  And I have no idea how to protect him except by telling all of Panem over and over again that Peeta is mine.

In the end, I’d assumed that Peeta had gotten up without me because he’d been expecting his brother to visit, but now…

Had that been some kind of subtle prelude to this?

I can barely get the question out.  “You don’t…?”  Don’t what?  Want— _need_ —me?  I can’t decide which word to use.  Neither seems to fit.  I want neither to fit.

He persists with false optimism, “The nightmares might get better.  We haven’t really given them a chance to fade.”

“Fade,” I echo numbly.

“Or, maybe we’ll get strong enough to bear them,” he offers.  And while this option is far more realistic, the thought of enduring the interim makes my breath shallow out and my head spin.  There are only so many times I can watch Rue bleed to death in my arms, Gale get ripped to pieces, Prim scream until she coughs up blood and disappears beneath the angry buzz of tracker jackers, and Peeta—

_Peeta._

Peeta thinks he can handle it.  Alone.  Maybe he can.  He’s strong.

And I guess that says it all.  Peeta doesn’t want to need me.  But how are we going to protect each other if we don’t—

“Fine,” I say, because saying anything else will reveal just how strong I’m not.  I try to shake off his grasp as I stand, but he doesn’t let go.

“Katniss.”

I tug harder.  He holds on.

“I just want to do the right thing.”  I try to ignore his pleading tone.  He sounds so tired.  Desperate.  “If I live with you and your family, it’ll be that much easier for Snow to boss us around.  I know we’ll have to do whatever he wants eventually, but don’t you want it to be on your terms?”

My voice is barely louder than a puff of wind.  “Maybe this _is_  on my terms.”

He stands and when his hand grips my shoulder, I let him step in front of me.  I keep my face angled away, though.  “Look at me.”

Jaw clenched, I do.  I have to glare at him in order to manage it, but what I see shakes the anger right out of me, scattering it like dandelion seeds in the breeze.  There’s an intensity in his eyes that knocks the wind right from my lungs.

He says quietly, “We’re partners and you want me to live with you and your family.”

It takes me a moment to realize he’s asking for confirmation.  I nod.

His breathing is slow and deliberately measured.  “You know I will do whatever it takes to keep your sister safe.  You know I’m with you, no matter what.”

I nod again.

He swallows.  “I just need to know one thing, okay?”

I wait.

He asks, “Is this real?”  His voice is a soft rumble in the forest, like the rolling thunder of an approaching storm.  “Do you really want this or is it just another strategy?”

As he searches my expression, I search myself.  There are so many manipulations and lies around us, but I’d promised him my honesty.  I look down as I reach for our still-joined hands and bring them up between us.  I never thought I’d need Peeta Mellark.  I never thought I’d need anyone.  I’m not sure I want to need him, but it seems stupid to fight it at this point.  It’s too late to go back to the way things used to be and there’s too much riding on this to give up now.

_“This_  is real,” I murmur, clutching his hand tighter.  Looking into his eyes, I explain, “The lies and whatever else exist so they can’t make us let go.”

The muscles along his forehead twitch once and then relax as realization dawns.  I’m not sure what that realization is, but it seems profound.  I hadn’t said anything profound, had I?  I’d only spoken the truth, like I’d promised.

Peeta inhales deeply and steps forward, wrapping one arm around my shoulders and sandwiching our hands between us.  He tilts his chin down and whispers into my good ear, “I’ve got you.”

In the next instant, my fingers are curling into the shirt fabric at the small of his back and his other hand – newly released – is petting my braid.  “I’ve got you, Katniss, and I’ll—”  He pauses and swallows.  I can feel his Adam’s apple bob against my jaw.  “I’ll bring my stuff over after Duff goes home tonight.”

I sag with relief and Peeta has to widen his stance to accommodate the sudden shift in weight.  “Sorry,” I mumble, pulling back.

“Shh.  Stay.  Just a little longer.  Please.”

His warm hand moves over the weave in my hair and I relent.  I know I’m stronger than this and it makes me angry that I seem to have forgotten how to stand on my own, but that’s not Peeta’s fault.  In fact, right now he’s making it seem like he needs me just as much, and I appreciate that.  This isn’t the first time he’s saved my pride.  This isn’t the first time he’s done something heroic for me.  But it’s the first time I worry that I don’t deserve it, that I’ll never deserve any of it.  Or him.  Peeta Mellark is a hero.  That has never been more clear than it is now.

 


	10. The Nightmares

 

**Peeta's POV**

 

Duff has just gotten out of the shower when Katniss and I get back to the house.  He takes one look at my mussed hair and Katniss’ leaf-and-twig matted braid and smirks knowingly.

The moment Katniss is out of earshot, he shoots off with, “Have a nice, er, walk home?”

I return fire.  “Jealous that you had to settle for a scrum in the steam?”

He laughs, but when he scans me, looking for grass stains and streaks of mud, I know he doesn’t find anything.  That’s because Katniss and I had _not_  been rolling around in the forest.  We’d stood there for a good, long time with our arms around each other, but nothing had happened.  Only, just as we’d left the fallen tree, I’d remembered—

“The cameras will be waiting.”

Katniss had tensed.

“They already know we have something to hide,” I’d continued.  “And if we walk out of here like this, they’ll assume we didn’t do anything except talk.”

“What’s wrong with that?” she’d wanted to know.

“Snow might get suspicious.”

It had taken her a moment to get it.  “Oh.  Right.”  She’d winced and sworn softly.  “What do you suggest?”

“If we stumble out onto the road a little, um, messy and laughing, people will assume we came out here to, uh, be alone for other reasons.”

I’d let Katniss make the choice.  “I don’t like it.  They’ll say things about you—”

“About you, too,” I’d warned, but she’d brushed my concern aside.

“But it’s safer for Prim, isn’t it?  If we… you know.”  The aimless gesture she’d made between us had finished the thought for her.

“Probably.”  We can’t have Snow thinking Katniss and I are whispering words of conspiracy and sedition in each other’s ears.

So, she’d messed up my hair.  Her touch had been brief, but I’d gasped at the feel of her fingers clutching the locks.  It’d felt different from back when she’d rinsed the mud from me at the riverside, different from when she’d stroked my scalp in the cave.  More intense.  Visceral.  I’d closed my eyes and tried my damnedest to not get hard.  I’d lost that battle rather spectacularly, but what the hell.  It would only lend credibility to the act.

I hate the act.

But it’s necessary.

My fingers had picked at Katniss’ braid and then I’d tucked in a few bits of leaves and twigs into it.  “I’m sorry,” I’d mouthed.

“It’s okay.”  She’d taken my hand and we’d made our way toward the road.

As we’d approached, I’d asked in a timely manner, “So, you really liked my limerick?”

She’d snickered.  “It was great.”

“I’ve got another one.  Wanna hear it?”

“Impress me, Mellark.”

Grinning, I’d murmured, “Effie Trinket’s a Capitol girl—

“She prances and smiles and twirls—

“She has a good soul—

“Although she thinks coal—

“With pressure can turn into pearls.”

And that’s how I’d won a second round of laughter from Katniss Everdeen in a single afternoon.  I’d chuckled and she’d gasped with silent mirth as we’d pushed our way out of the forest and our feet had hit the road not ten paces from a befuddled-looking camera crew.  Their confusion had disappeared instantly at the sight of us and I had just as instantly despised them.  They clearly thought Katniss and I had snuck off to make out and feel each other up.  To make matters worse, that was precisely what they were supposed to think.  It was safer for Prim, so I had to _let_  them think it, insinuate it, defile our partnership – which is _real, so real _–__ with their crass assumptions.

I want nothing more than to erase every single one of them from District Twelve.

Have I mentioned before how much I Goddamn hate the act?  Because I do.  With everything in me, I hate it, but I know I only have myself to blame for it.  I was the one who set all this in motion.  One confession broadcast to all of Panem and things just snowballed from there.

“Hm, maybe it wasn’t such a good walk,” Duff murmurs, taking in the state of my unrumpled clothes and the scowl carved into my face.

“It was great,” I answer, which is true even if I regret all the necessary mechanizations that had gone along with it.  “We take what we can get.”

“Speaking of which,” Duff begins.  I know this tone.  He’s going to ask for a favor.  “How about letting me mooch hot showers more than once a week?”

I laugh.  No one can resist Capitol showers… even with the ever-present risk of hitting that rose-scented soap button.  “You tell me how dad gets the cheese buns to turn out like they do and I’ll engrave your name on the bathroom door.  How’s that?”

“Deal.”

We don’t talk about Mother at all and no one mentions her during dinner, which we have at Katniss’ with her mom and sister.  Duff behaves himself.  Primrose doesn’t.  Katniss and I watch the impromptu wrestling lesson going on in the backyard while she washes and I dry the dishes.

“Are you interested in learning?” I hear myself ask suddenly.

“What?  How to bake bread?”

“That and wrestling.”

She’s quiet for a moment.

I nudge the conversation along.  “It could come in handy someday.  Wrestling.  If you meet up with a bear or something.”

Her lips quirk into a secret grin.  “Yeah, well.  Already done that.”

I can’t decide if my alarm is equal parts terror and humor or if the puff of laughter is merely a garnish.  “I’m tempted to ask where you keep its pelt.”  Obviously, Katniss had walked away from that encounter, so I think it’s safe to assume that the bear had gotten the worse end of it.

She shakes her head.  “No pelt.  It was a draw.”

Prim squeals shrilly as Duff collapses onto the grass under her inexpert charge.  His grunt is totally exaggerated.  No way does she have enough mass to body slam him for real, but he’s good at faking.  Not so good at actively lying, but pretty good at playing along.

Seeing Katniss’ attention still riveted to their roughhousing, I offer, “Duff’s a good teacher.  Taught me.”

He might never have stood up for me at home, but he’d always tried to give me as many advantages as he could: volunteering to keep a look-out, backing up my lies with guileless nods, showing me how to pin Baxter down in under five seconds, sneaking ingredients from the storeroom so I could whip up a new batch of whatever I’d just screwed up before our mother could catch on.  Stuff like that.  He’s a good guy.  Part of me wishes he wasn’t.  Wishes I could blame him.

“Then you can teach me,” Katniss suddenly informs me.

“What?”

“Or are you not taking on any students?”

I can’t tell if she’s teasing me or not.  “If you wanna learn, you should go with the best.”

“Stop,” she objects and I look up into her gaze.  So direct.  A force in and of itself.

I swallow.  Look away.  I feel sunburned.  “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” she persists.

The fact that she cares enough to persist is what pulls the jumble of fears up from my gut.  “She’s always told me I’m stupid and a waste.”  Katniss doesn’t ask who had said those things.  There aren’t many _shes_ in my life.  The only other person I could be talking about is Delly Cartwright and I’m pretty sure Katniss knows how sweet and kind Delly is to everyone.  I sum up, “And now I only have one leg.  I can’t teach you.”

Katniss doesn’t dry her hands before she’s gripping my arm, her soapy fingers soaking the sleeve of my T-shirt.  Rivulets of water run down my arm.  “Hey.  You are one of the smartest people I know.”

I doubt that.

“You know how to handle people,” she breathes.  “You know how they think, _what_  they think, how to make them think what you _want_  them to—”  She reminds me, “That saved your life and it saved me.  I was ready to go out and kill after that first announcement, and you wouldn’t let me.  You wouldn’t let them change me.”

Before I can absorb that, she insists, “You’re not a waste.   _She’s_  a waste for not seeing how good you are.”

God.  How can she talk like she’s just stating facts?  She looks a little angry and her grip is a little too tight and she’s practically ordering me to stop acting like a moron – have I been? – and I shouldn’t find comfort in her fierceness, but I do.  There is no pity, sympathy, or softness in her.

“And you do have two legs – you can walk.”  Yet another wall crumbles under her unrelenting assault.  “You can probably run with practice, even up and down stairs.”

Ah, so she had noticed my little stumble this afternoon as we’d left her mom’s.

“And I trust you.”

I gape at her.  This is the first time she’s said that to me out loud.

“So, when you’re ready, you teach me.”

“Okay,” I answer numbly.

“Okay.”  She pulls away and plunges her hands back into the sink.

A moment later, I laugh.

“What?”

“I guess this means I can’t afford to keep ignoring that stupid exercise schedule they sent home with me.”

She smiles.  “Hm.  What was that you were saying about routines?”

I accept a handful of clean spoons from her.  “It’s not like I have anything else going on in the morning now, is it?”

Her elbow nudges mine.  Deliberately?  I’m not sure.  “Me either.”

That night, Katniss comes into the bathroom while I’m brushing my teeth.  I move aside and she washes her face before collecting her toothbrush.  I tell her goodnight.  She doesn’t follow me into my room.  I tell myself that I’m grateful.  It wouldn’t be smart for us to fall into a pattern of dependence.  We need to try and allow our fears to fade, otherwise we’ll be at a disadvantage when – if? – we’re separated.

I wake in the middle of the night, soaked in sweat, a thin whine of denial vibrating in my throat.  I’m smothering in the reek of roasted human flesh and a singed rope of braided hair.  I make it to the toilet just in time.  I try to heave quietly in the dark but, a moment later, Katniss is there, turning on the dim night light and laying a cool, damp cloth over the back of my neck to calm my racing pulse.

“Okay?” she asks.

Still panting, I close the lid of the toilet and flush away the dregs of my stomach.  Turning my head, I find myself staring at her bare thighs and, before I can think twice, I’m stroking the smooth, unblemished skin where her burn had been.  “Girl on Fire,” I choke out.  The play on words still makes me sick.  “If they’d let me in with the Gamemakers, I would have killed them with my bare hands for that.”

A moment of confusion-laced silence.

“The fire?” she finally clarifies.

I nod, curling my hand around her leg and pressing my palm to the place where she ought to have a scar.  “Bobry – uh, the boy from Three – he stopped me from losing my shit when I saw the smoke.”  Who knows what would have happened if he hadn’t put a hand on my shoulder and calmed me down.  Clove – ever suspicious of me – might have killed me on sight.  I never would have seen Katniss again, wouldn’t have helped her through that whole thing with the tracker jackers, wouldn’t have ever lain in her arms or listened to her stories.

Katniss’ hand covers mine.  “I’m sorry about Bobry.”  She sinks down to sit on the floor next to me.  I lean against the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl.  She leans against the cabinets beneath the sink.  “I saw it happen.  It was Cato.  Snapped his neck.  I was too dizzy to move.  The explosion just…  I’m sorry.”

I close my eyes as she wipes my forehead with the washcloth.  Without looking, I reach for her face and cradle her jaw in my hand.  “And your ear is still…?”

“Yeah.”

I don’t tell her I’m sorry.  “You’re going to be okay,” I say, opening my eyes.  “You’re going to adjust and, by the time we bore the pants off the camera crew, you’ll be ready to hunt again.”  I smile and chuckle.  “Furry forest critters beware.”

Her smile is wide.  I see a flash of teeth before she ducks her head down.  Her other hand reaches out and I watch her fingertips press against the indestructible resin and metal of my artificial leg.  “You didn’t take it off last night, either.”

“Forgot,” I admit.  I’d just been so damn tired by the time she’d lain down with me that I hadn’t spared it a thought.  And it’s a good thing I’d left it on tonight or I wouldn’t have made it to the bathroom in time.  Wouldn’t that have been lovely?

“Does it hurt?  The buckles, I mean.”  I watch as her hand slides up a bit beneath the hem of my pant leg until I can’t see her fingers anymore.  Oh, God.  I can’t even feel her touch, but it’s turning me on.  How can I get turned on just from watching her stroke my prosthetic limb?  And after the nightmare I’d had?  After enduring the vision of her being burned alive?

I shudder, and the heat in my veins turns to ice as I recall that terrible moment in my dream: Katniss twirling on stage, surrounded by fallen, blazing trees, her red dress igniting, engulfing her, her screams as the flames licked and slashed and tore at her skin like claws and fangs—

“Peeta?”

My gaze snaps up to hers.  The sound of my own labored breaths echo off the tiles.  “Sorry.  Um—”  What was the question?  Her fingers drift over the buckles below my knee and I remember.  “Uh, yeah, the buckles make my leg sore, but it’s better than feeling the tickle of what isn’t there.”

“Tickle?”

“Sometimes I get these twinges and little aches and I swear it’s coming from my foot or ankle or calf or shin, but there’s nothing there.  It’s all in my head.  I know that, but for an instant it’s like none of it happened and I never lost it… but then I look down and I know I did and what my brain is telling me isn’t real.  And that moment when I remember, when I figure it out—”  I swallow and blow out a shaky breath.  “It’s hard.”

“You took it off on the sofa.”

“Because you were there.  Um.”  How to say this?  “When you’re with me, it’s easier to know what’s real.”

“That’s why you asked me today?  About it being real?”

“Yeah,” I admit.

She frowns.  She still doesn’t know how important she is to me, what she does for me.  She needs to understand.  I need her to understand.

“Promise me,” I implore, “that no matter what the truth is, you’ll be that.  You’ll show me.”  My greatest fear drives the words: fear that I’ll invest myself in lies.

“What if I don’t know?”

“Then just be you.  That’s a good place to start.”

She drops her hand, curling her fingers around my artificial ankle.  “Are you okay now?  I mean, earlier in the forest today were you…?”

I sigh.  Truthfully, I’m still terrified of so much.  I hate it.  I hate that I instinctively turn to Katniss in order to orient myself.  I shouldn’t expect that from her.  She doesn’t know what the hell we’re supposed to be doing any more than I do.  “I think I’m okay.  It’s just, um, with all the attention and the way we have to react to it, I was starting to get… lost.”

Katniss gives me a whisper of a smile.  “It’s okay if you do.  Get a little lost, I mean.  I’m a pretty good tracker.”

I agree.  “You found me once.  At the river.”

She adds, “And at the clearing with the Careers and near the berry bushes.”

Oh, right.  “You _are_  a pretty good tracker.  That’s a transferable skill for stalkers, you know.”

She pokes me in the foot with her toes.  “You’re the obsessive one.”

I know I am.  I’m patient and observant.  Both are qualities possessed by successful hunters.  “But you’d hear me coming a mile away.”

She glances off to the side, conceding the point.  “At least you don’t snore.  Come on.”

Katniss hands me a cup of water.  I rinse my mouth out and splash water on my face before accepting the towel she holds out to me.  I don’t resist when she tugs me into her room, but she startles me by opening the window.  Then she sits down on the bed and waits for me to remove my leg before she turns out the light.  The breeze is still unseasonably cool and she burrows into the covers, tucking her back against my chest.  I hope my breath on her neck helps keep her warm.  Every cell in my body strains to get closer to her.  It takes a while before I finally relax enough to let go of consciousness.

My sleep is dark and deep until nearly dawn when Katniss jerks, her entire body slamming against mine and almost knocking me out of bed.

I murmur and mumble sleepy reassurances as she paws at her left ear, at which point I gather my wits and ask, “What?  What is it?”  Had she hurt it?  Is it ringing?

There are tears spilling over her lashes in the gloaming.  I sit up and lean against the headboard, pulling her into my arms.  “I’ve got you.”

She angles her chin so that I speak into her right ear.  I pet her messy braid.  She calms.  “I blew up the supplies,” she whispers, glaring miserably at the open window and the pale glow of dawn.  “But there was a coal mine underneath and the tunnel collapsed.  I thought it was my dad.  Dying.  Again.”

I remember Katniss telling me that she dreams of the mines.  It makes a sick kind of sense that her mind would torment her with that moment, would translate her father’s death into some kind of personal failure on her part.  It hadn’t been her fault, of course, but sometimes accepting the blame is the only way to cope with something that is beyond your control.  I’d know: I’ve done it often enough.

“Peeta?”

“Hm?”

“Don’t ever tell me something – whisper – in my left ear.  Okay?”

“Okay.”  It’s almost a question.  Where had that request come from?

She turns toward me, settles her head on my shoulder, and speaks into my armpit.  “Y— he died and his ghost whispered something in my ear.  The left one.  It was important, but I couldn’t hear it.”

Goose bumps break out over her arms.  I pull her closer and tug the blanket up over us.  “He was your dad, Katniss.  You already know what he’d want to tell you: how much he loves you and how proud he is of you.  How sorry he is that he had to leave you so soon.  How much he didn’t want to.”

She doesn’t say anything and as the silence stretches I hope she’s fallen back asleep because I’m pretty sure I’d just crossed a line and said too much.  I lean my head against hers, ignoring the dull throb in my bruised back, and close my eyes.  Just as my arms relax from around her, she draws in a shuddering breath.

“It wasn’t him.  It was you.”

The words are barely more than a breath.  I must have imagined them.  A wisp of a thought passes through my mind as I drift off again: if it had been my ghost whispering in her ear, the message would have been exactly the same.

 


	11. The Routine

 

**Peeta's POV**

 

“When were you gonna tell me about this little development?”

I give in to the urge to lift my hands to my face and try to scrub my frustration from my skin.  How can Haymitch be covered in dried vomit, his clothes wrinkled and damp with stale sweat, eyes bloodshot to hell, and _still_ know so damn much about what’s going on between Katniss and me?  It doesn’t make a damn bit of sense.

“Which development is that?” I ask, crouching down and tossing an empty bottle over toward a pile of its brethren.

Haymitch rolls his eyes and snorts.  “I ain’t your momma, kid,” he grouses.  “Stupid don’t work on me.”

I glare at him.  He doesn’t even see it because his eyes are closed, but he chuckles darkly.  The effort barely makes his sprawled body jerk against the flattened cushions.

“Your sweetheart been teaching you a few tricks?”

I tense.  “Stop it,” I growl.  “It’s not like that.”

“It’s not like what?  It’s not like you haven’t spent a single night in your own bed since you got back?”

Shit.  So he does know.  Denying it will only waste time.  “Has the Capitol figured it out yet?”

“Well, you didn’t hide the fact that you were bringing a bag over there last night.  Then there was that interesting sequence of lights being turned on and off in the wee hours.”  He peels open his crusty eyelids.  “And sweetheart over there doesn’t normally sleep with a window open.”

I don’t try to convince him he’s wrong.  What would be the point?  “Get your ass off that couch and come into the kitchen,” I order.  “I’ll slice the bread and you’ll give me advice.”

“Let’s just skip to the advice so I can get on with my nap.”

“Kitchen.  Now,” I bark, stomping through the rubbish on the cluttered floor.  I deliberately slam pots and whatever else around, making a God awful racket until Haymitch curses, rolls off the sofa in the living room, and shuffles his way into the kitchen.

I grab the unopened bottle from his hand and replace it with food.  “Bread first, then you can drink until you croak.”

“Promises, promises,” he mutters.

Collapsing into the chair opposite him, I blink at his unkempt beard.  I trace the scars on the tabletop.  I sigh in the direction of the backdoor.  How do I get through to this guy?  Rubbing his face in his own failures will only get me booted out.  So, success it is, then.

I aim for indignant and huffy.  That’ll be less threatening than blatant disappointment.  “It doesn’t matter to you at all that you saved two lives?”

“Shit, kid, it matters.”

“But?”

“But I’m an old, worn out cynic waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“What do you mean?”

Haymitch ignores my squint and begins tearing the crust off of the thick serving of still-warm bread.  “I mean _something_  that you don’t need to be worrying about right now.”

“I’ve cleared a bit off my plate.  I think I can handle it.”

He laughs.  It’s a sick, rasping sound.  “Kid, you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“So tell me.”

He rolls his shoulders, clears his throat, and remarks, “This moving in with sweetheart and her family could be a good tactic, but you gotta keep up the angle you two started in the games.  Close but innocent, got it?  Lots of smiles and lovey dovey shit.  Do not ramp up the action in front of the cameras.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

Well, okay.  Maybe I’d dream it, but it’d be more of a nightmare than anything else.  “I’m sure as hell not having my first kiss with Katniss broadcast all over the damn country,” I inform him.

He snorts.  “Hate to break it to you, kid, but it kinda already has been.”

He’s talking about that kiss in the cave.  “She didn’t kiss me because she wanted to.  She did it to shut me up.”

“Point,” he concedes.

Which reminds me.  “Thank you for sending that parachute with the food when you did.  Otherwise, she and I might have… um.”

Haymitch remains silent for a long moment and I get the feeling that he’s lost in his own thoughts rather than waiting for me to finish speaking mine.

“I see it every year,” he grates out.  “One by one, those kids get lost in the Games.  They lose themselves in it.”  He sets his jaw.  I know this angle.  His mouth tightens, twists into a sneer.  He’s furious, but not at me.  Rage burns in his tired eyes.  I know that anger; I feel it, too.  How long will it take before it burns me out like it has him?  “I couldn’t stop either of you from becoming killers, but I could stop at least one thing both of you would come to regret.”

I don’t argue with him because he’s right.  I don’t thank him because I’d already done that.  So I just sit there and watch him grudgingly gnaw at the food in his dirty hands.

“You two have something,” Haymitch volunteers.  “Something Snow is afraid of.  You figured out what it is yet?”

“Um, the uprisings?  We inspire people?”

“The districts don’t need much in the way of inspiration.  They’ve got more than enough rage to light that fire.  Any spark would do.  Try again.”

I take a deep breath and think about it.  I want to be worthy of the credit Haymitch gives me.  It’s more than my mother ever has.  “Okay, uh…”  I think back to our time in the Capitol.  What else had Katniss and I done that would bother the president?  Memories of cheering crowds and waves of heartfelt sighs inundate me.

Oh.

That’s it.

“The citizens love us.”

I look up and into Haymitch’s calculating smirk.  “Bingo.  The two of you have the power to sway public opinion.”

And the president of Panem can’t go against the citizens directly.  Katniss and I have the man over a barrel.  No wonder he’d shown up in her hospital room with vague threats.  I think it through a bit more.  “And the reason he’s left me alone is because of what I said?  About the Games changing my life for the better?”

“That’d be my guess.  You’re the new poster boy for the Hunger Games.  You won it all and rode off into the sunset with the girl.  A true victor.”

“And he can’t touch Katniss without screwing with that, can he?”

“Not at the moment, no, but once the Victory Tour starts, all bets are off.”

“What do you mean?”

“You gotta be ready for this.  With one hand, Snow’s gonna use the two of you to promote the Games, to remind everyone of how worthwhile—”  He sneers.  “—they are.  But, once you get to the Capitol, he’s probably gonna try to undermine your image.”

“How?”

He squints.  “I think that’s enough for today.”

“Haymitch—!”

“Small steps, champ.  Now get the hell outta my house.”

I go, but not before I warn Haymitch that I’ll be back to collect him for dinner tonight.  He needs to eat and he needs people.  He needs to remember that he did a good job: Katniss and I are alive because of him.  He needs to be around people who don’t judge him.  This could have been me, after all: a weary drunk sleeping away the day in squalor.  Someday, that _could_  be me.  If anything ever happens to Katniss, if she ever gives up on me, that _will_ be me.

“Peeta!”

I’m pulled abruptly from my thoughts as the woman reporter from the Capitol – I never did catch her name – trots over, camera crew in tow.  I smile even as I brace myself.

“Good morning,” I greet.  “I hope you’re still enjoying your stay in Twelve?”

“Oh, yes!  It’s a lovely district.  In fact, those cheese and apple pastries from your family’s bakery are a slice of heaven,” she burbles.

I grin.  “Those are my brother Duff’s specialty.  He’ll be thrilled to know you like them.”

“Wasn’t that him we saw stop by for a visit yesterday?”

“Yes—”

“And what did he say about you moving in with Katniss?”

I think fast.  Thank God my conversation with Haymitch had already given me a head start on this.  I lie smoothly, “He didn’t look too surprised.  It’s nice to have a big house—”  I nod in the direction of my home.  “—but, as Katniss pointed out to me the other day, it’s better to share it with someone.  So, when Mrs. Everdeen welcomed me into their family, I accepted.”  God, I hope she backs me up on this.

The reporter blinks her glitter-dusted eyelashes.  She hadn’t been expecting this angle.  She probably hadn’t expected me to come right out and admit to it.  “Does this mean we can expect an announcement in the near future?  Are you and Katniss moving in that direction?”

I laugh in her face.  I try to soften it though with a bashful smile.  I rub the back of my neck in embarrassment.  “I know that, technically, we’re both adults thanks to the Games, but we’re still only sixteen years old and, right now, Katniss and I just want to spend time together.  To make up for all the years we’ve wasted.”

“And what do you do when you’re together?”

Is she seriously expecting me to provide her with some kind of salacious list?  “We talk.  Help each other in the kitchen.  And, she’s offered to help me get started with my training.”  I gesture down to my damaged leg.  Lowering my voice, I confide, “Don’t tell my doctors, but I haven’t even looked at their instructions yet.”

Before she can launch another question, I politely but firmly cut her off, “It’s been great talking with you again, but I need to get back.  Drop biscuits don’t bake themselves and I’ve got a little sister who’s waiting on breakfast.”

I’m a little surprised when she lets me go with a chirpy thank you.  Huh.  I must have given her what she’d been after.  I just hope it doesn’t get twisted around.  Haymitch’s advice about keeping my relationship with Katniss innocent seems ominous somehow, like I ought to be preparing for some kind of assault aimed at that specific aspect of our lives.  I’m just not quite sure exactly how to go about dealing with that.

“What was all that?” Katniss asks, stepping away from the living room window when I open the front door.  It feels weird to just waltz in, but knocking would cast doubt over the warm welcome I’d claimed to have been given.

I sigh and run a hand through my hair.  “They know I’m living here.”

She scowls and I know exactly what she’s thinking.

“Yeah.  That was fast.”  I tilt my head toward the kitchen.  “Let’s get breakfast going and I’ll fill you in.”

Katniss doesn’t look happy with the interview I’d given or my summary of Haymitch’s words of wisdom, but I leave her to her silence.  I don’t think she’s angry with me.  More like she’s upset by the situation in general.  It’s ten kinds of irritating that we have to justify ourselves to the entire country.  When I mutter this, she finally looks me in the eye.

“I know you think I’m good at this,” I continue, keeping my voice low so I can hear Prim’s approaching footsteps.  She’ll be coming downstairs any minute now.  “But I couldn’t always talk myself out of trouble at home.”

“Your mother was determined to see the worst.  She was looking for an excuse to hurt you,” Katniss tells me bluntly and with uncanny accuracy.

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as my mind interposes President Snow’s cold stare over my mother’s irrational fury.  “She never hit me in public, though,” I offer, again seeing the parallel there.  Snow can’t touch us directly as long as the Capitolites are enamored with us.

“How’s your back?” she suddenly asks, reaching for the edge of my shirt.  

I hold still and let her take a look at it.  “It feels a little better today.”

“Hm.  The swelling is gone.  It’s just a bruise now.”

“That’s good.”  I can only hope President Snow’s presence in our lives will be just as superficial.

The cameras hover as Katniss and I walk her sister to school and I find myself competing with Prim in an impromptu spelling bee.  I try to keep my mistakes subtle so she doesn’t pick up on the fact that I’m letting her win.  I stand with Katniss at the edge of the yard and wave goodbye.  We wait until the bell rings and the doors close behind the last kid.

“You’re really good with her,” Katniss tells me.

Reaching for her hand is practically a reflex.  My mouth twitches into a wide, crooked grin in the instant before the fear hits.  My smile fades.  My fingers tighten around hers.  “Don’t let me screw up.”

“I won’t.”

I let out a deep breath.  “So, what’s your plan for the day?”

She shrugs.

“You’re not going to help your mom?”

“Maybe later.”

When I glance at her, she’s staring thoughtfully down at my left leg.

“What kind of exercises do they want you to do?”

Oh.  So that’s her plan for today.  “Um, I’ll have to find the paper they gave me and read it.”

“Okay.”

So that’s what we do.  Some of the illustrations of the stretches call for assistance.  Katniss wordlessly volunteers to spot me.  We work outside since it’s a nice day.  Plus, there’s the presence of the cameras and the rumor mill to consider.  We awkwardly laugh our way through the unfamiliar exercises, fumbling and stumbling when I lose my balance.  At one point, as I’m lying on my back in the yard and trying to psych myself into doing a mortifying series of pelvic thrusts meant to strengthen my lower back, Katniss tickles my bent knees and it takes every ounce of self-control I have to keep from kicking her out of reflex.

“You shrieked!” she accuses breathlessly.

“Did not!  That was you.”

“Thumb war,” she proposes, thrusting her fist toward me.

I knock her hand away.  “Arm wrestling,” I insist.  I have better odds of winning that one.

“Come on, Mellark,” Katniss teases with crooked and utterly kissable smile.  “Still waiting for this hip action.”

I bark a laugh up at the fluffy white clouds and cover my face with my hands.  I can feel my skin burning against my palms.  Oh, God.  This is beyond embarrassing.  Worse than asking her to dig a trench for me so I could take a piss in that damn cave.

Yes, it’s true that I have no pride when it comes to Katniss Everdeen, but this is just too much.  She can’t expect me to manage a dozen repetitions of something that mimics sex while she watches, can she?  Hell, if I make eye contact with her, I’m positive I’ll get hard – epically hard – and wouldn’t that be a thrill?  Especially for all the people watching this in the Capitol.

I snort.   _There goes the innocent angle._

“Katniss…”  How do I even begin to explain this?

“Peeta?”

Oh, God.  The whispery way she says my name slays me.  “Maybe you could, um, sit on my feet instead?”

Frowning, she glances down at her hands, which are bracing my feet against the ground.  “I think I’m strong enough to keep you steady like this.”

She says it like I’m being an idiot to doubt her.  I swallow back a curse word.  I really, really don’t want to explain the precise nature of the problem to her.  “Just, do me a favor and turn around, then.  This is… embarrassing.”

Her arched brows and tucked-down chin say it all: after everything we’ve been through, it ought to be impossible for me to feel ashamed of my body in her presence.  It ought to be, but it sure as hell isn’t.  I’m only human, after all, and it’s oh so much fun being a teenage boy in close proximity to an incredible girl.

I squint up at the sky.  I breathe in… and out… and wait.

“Okay,” she finally allows and I look up as she twists around.  Her hands are still curled over and pressing down on my feet, but now I have some measure of privacy.  I trace the weave in her braid with my gaze, eye the arch of her spine, and measure the narrow valley between her shoulder blades.

“Thanks,” I mutter and, spreading out my arms for additional balance, I lift my hips.  I try desperately not to think of pulling her into my lap, of her supple thighs draped over mine.  I try not to imagine tonguing the soft skin on her neck and behind her ear…  I wince as a tingle shimmers out from the base of my spine.  Shit.  This is so not gonna work.

Katniss unthinkingly comes to my rescue.  “I just don’t…  Why does this bother you now?”

She’s thinking of the cave – I can tell – and the memory of those terror-and-fever-filled hours squashes my burgeoning arousal.  “Because,” I grunt out, “there’s no—threat of—imminent death.”

A long moment and three more reps pass before she responds softly, “I’m glad.”

“Me, too.”  My flippant reply comes out in a whisper.  The sunlight makes my eyes get all swimmy and I have to blink the moisture back inside my head.

The last activity listed on my exercise itinerary is a run.  A run.  These doctors, they’re such comedians.

“Come on,” Katniss urges, hauling on my arm.

“Katniss—”

“Just once around the village.”

“I can’t—”

“You will.  With practice.  Let’s get started.”

“I’m going to fall flat on my face.”

“I’ll catch you.”  She stops, turns, looks me in the eye.  “I’ve got you, Peeta.  Trust me.”

Her fingers interlace and lock between mine.  It’s such a small gesture, but it reverberates all the way through me.  In this subtly earnest moment, something happens – shifts – between us.  I can feel it.

This is new.

It’s new because Katniss doesn’t have to be here, now, keeping me company while I try to figure out how to trust my own body again.  She _chooses_ to be here, to hold my hand, to work with me on something that I will ultimately have to do for myself.  It has never been more obvious that Katniss cares about me.  She doesn’t even see herself as a caregiver like her mother is or Prim will surely be one day soon, and yet she takes care of me.

I shift, putting my body between Katniss and the camera crew.  This moment is ours.  They can’t have it.

“Hey,” I whisper, lifting my unsnared hand to her face and brushing my thumb along her jaw.  “I trust you.”  My lips curl upward but my voice is not teasing when I warn her, “And now that you’ve got me, there’s no way you’ll be getting rid of me.”

Her lips look so, so soft as they tremble open.  Her eyes are fathomless and I wonder if I really can see right through to her heart.  Am I there?  In her heart?  For the first time, I really think there’s a chance I could be.

I’ve never wanted to kiss her more.

Her jaw clenches shut.  Her lashes lower.  She takes a step back.  “Yeah, well.”  She clears her throat.  “Let’s see you finish a lap before making any guarantees.”

The cameras follow us as I attempt a slow jog with Katniss at my elbow and when I wobble, she’s there, steady and strong.  Just like she’d promised.  Someday, I’ll be that stable again.  I try and be patient, but it gets more and more difficult as the day goes on.

“Nice show today,” Haymitch drawls, pushing his mostly-clean plate away.  I give him a look, warning him to keep it to himself.  The last thing Katniss and I need is Prim picking up on the fact that certain things are expected of us.  Those blue eyes of hers cannot hold onto a secret.

“What show?  What’d I miss?” Prim quickly asks, molasses cookie halfway to her mouth.

“Oh, um, I went for a run today.  Doctors’ orders.  Katniss helped me,” I explain, forgoing my usual penchant for eloquently worded explanations.

Haymitch lifts his hands and showily applauds us.  “Nice.  Job.  Sweetheart.”

Katniss sits back, scowling and defensive.

“Stop being a jerk,” I tell him.

He wheezes out a laugh.  “It’s a little too late for that, so don’t get your hopes up, kid.”

“Haymitch, our expectations are so low even you couldn’t trip on them,” Katniss mutters, grabbing her and her sister’s empty plates before marching over to the kitchen sink.

He ignores her.  “So we can expect an encore tomorrow?  Since you’re being a good boy and following instructions?”

That snooty tone is going to earn him a broken nose one of these days.  It’s a toss-up as to who will do the honors: Katniss or myself.

“Yes,” I retort through my teeth.  “And after lunch tomorrow, we’ll be going in to town to meet with the business bureau about an idea Katniss had today for bringing more livestock into the district.  We’d like it if you were there.”  She’d brought it up over lunch and I’d had to wrestle the phone out of her grasp in order to call Mayor Undersee’s office and make an appointment.

“It’s a _good_ idea, Katniss,” I’d insisted.  “And if you don’t let me set up a meeting using this phone, I’ll just go next door and call.”

“But I don’t know anything about importing animals!”

“Neither do I.  That’s why we’re going to ask for help.  Look,” I’d continued, “we have to do this now while the cameras are here and people are watching.”

Finally, she’d relented.  If only we didn’t need Haymitch to tag along so we’d be taken seriously.  Not that anyone takes Haymitch seriously, but three Victors standing shoulder-to-shoulder would be more impressive.  Right?

Haymitch arches his scruffy brows at me.  “So I’m invited, huh?  Because I’m so popular?”

“Because you’re our mentor.”

“You’re both grownups now, aren’t you?  I’m sure you can handle it.”

“With you there, I’m hoping there won’t be much handling required.  You did once say something about threats and blackmail smoothing the way in awkward situations.  Don’t tell me you haven’t got dirt on most of those guys.”  I feel wretched for stooping to this, but Katniss and I need to strike while the iron is hot.  I’d seen those kids’ faces at the school assembly.  The kids from the Seam are heart-wrenchingly thin.  How had I never noticed this before?  Their families need more food sources to draw upon and Katniss and I can do something about that.  Now.  While public opinion still favors us in the Capitol.  While the cameras are still our allies.

Haymitch’s silence is confirmation enough.  The smirk is superfluous.  I tweak my chin to the side, but my gaze doesn’t leave his.  Yes, I know better than to underestimate this man.  Most people overlook him – he puts so much energy into being a lay-about drunkard, after all – but Katniss and I both know he’s more than that.  He’s smart.  The kind of smart that could keep shit from going pear-shaped.

“Well, what the hell,” he agrees on a shrug, earning himself a brief glare from Katniss’ mother for his language.  “They like you two better than they ever liked me.  It’s worth a shot.”  He plucks a cookie from the platter at the center of the table and waves it vaguely in the air.  “Dinner for a favor, eh, sweetheart?”

Katniss nods once in acknowledgement.  Sometimes I forget that she and Haymitch speak a different language.  One that I have no patience for.

“Meet us outside at two o’clock,” I tell him before he can barge out the backdoor and mosey home in the dark.

He smirks.  “Somebody bring a wheelbarrow.  We’re gonna need it for all that dirt I’m bringin’ with me.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this District Twelve improvement stuff is looking a little like plot, but it's not. I promise. (^_~)
> 
> Also, Haymitch has totally worked out that President Snow probably threatened to sell Peeta to his "fans" in the Capitol. Actually, since both Katniss and Peeta are attractive, popular victors, he's assuming that both of them would be sold, most likely separately so one could be used as leverage against the other. Peeta knows something is going on behind the scenes, obviously -- he figured this back in Chapter 2, I think, when Haymitch says, "How much do you really need to know?" -- but he doesn't know how BAD it actually is. So, that's the deal with Haymitch's frustratingly vague warnings.


	12. The Business Bureau

 

**Peeta's POV**

 

“Just keep it small,” Haymitch grumbles as he leads the way into town.  Our appointment is at two-thirty, so we take our time walking, for which I’m thankful.  This morning’s exercise routine had been exhausting.  Katniss had ended up dragging me up the front steps and shoving me into the downstairs bathroom to get cleaned up.  I’d crashed on the sofa after that until she’d woken me for a late lunch.

When she’d waved aside my thanks, I’d wrapped my arms around her waist from behind and murmured them directly into her ear.  The right one.  She’d tensed and, although I’d wanted just one more moment with her in my arms, I’d let her go and filled the kettle for tea.

Now I’m glad for the caffeine.  I need to focus.  The camera crew has just wrapped up a shot of us meandering along and now they’re hurrying ahead to get set up for our arrival at the Justice Building.  Perhaps I should give them an itinerary of our day more often; it might allow for more private moments like this one.

Haymitch advises us, “The grander the scheme, the more attention it’ll get.  Don’t make yourselves look too smart.  Got it?”

“Got it,” I say.  Katniss frowns.  We’ve lost her somewhere in the sparse logic, so I add, “Accidental success is more endearing.”

Katniss scowls.

“Brainless naïve teenagers,” I summarize.

Her scowl intensifies.

“In a nutshell.”  Haymitch sniffs.

Katniss growls softly.  I’ve never heard this particular sound of frustration from her before.  If not for her bared teeth, it would be a purr.  “No one’s going to take us seriously.  Why are we bothering?”

“Because we have to try… and people expect us to.”  I glance at Haymitch and when he doesn’t refute me, I continue, “We’re young and happy.  Energetic.  Everyone would be shocked if we locked ourselves up in our houses and hoarded our winnings, especially after seeing what Twelve looks like.  You and I are a team and they expect us to at least _try_  and do some good for our district.”

“Try and _fail?”_  Katniss presses.  Just contemplating the waste of time, energy, and money is making her irritable and we haven’t even set foot in the meeting room yet.

“Sweetheart, I already explained before that no one comes out on top against the Capitol.  The best you can hope for is to play your part well enough to earn yourselves an uneventful retirement.”

Well.  With words like that, who wouldn’t be inspired?

I sigh, wanting nothing more than to get this whole thing over with so we can take stock of where things stand before coming up with an alternative plan.  Something less ambitious, maybe.  Something that we can keep off Snow’s radar that will still help our district.

“You’ve brought up something that I’ve been working toward for some time,” Mayor Undersee confides to us quietly as Haymitch riles up the members of the business bureau and the cameraman zooms in on his scruffy smirk.  I hear a remark about a goat and a not-so-subtle reference to something which ought to be anatomically impossible.  It’s clear that no one wants Twelve’s _other_ victor here: he has a talent for making himself obnoxiously unavoidable.  I’m glad we brought him with us.

“The livestock?” Katniss asks to clarify.  She’s as puzzled as I am by this unanticipated alliance with the mayor of all people.

I can tell from the tilt of the man’s balding head that domestic animals are only one point on his agenda.  He can fill us in later.  In the interest of time, our priority now is: “What do you need us to do to help make real change happen?”

He seems shocked by the intensity of my whisper.  I suppose most people from town don’t make a habit of caring what life is like in the Seam.  Or in Twelve in general.  I guess that just means I’m not like most Townies.  When Katniss’ hand slips around my elbow, I know it for a fact.  Katniss is the very embodiment of Seam life, of their struggle for survival, of their defiance and practicality in the face of idiotic bureaucracy and unrelenting oppression… and yet she trusts me, a boy from the Town.

“Keep the cameras here as long as you can,” he instructs us.  “Make sure they film you in places where they can see what the conditions are really like.”

“Why?” Katniss blurts with befuddlement and I have to agree.  How is keeping the spotlight focused on us and our underprivileged district a good plan?  Won’t that just incite more resentment?

Mayor Undersee explains, “President Snow is a politician first and foremost.  He’ll see the advantages of improving life in the outer districts.  That’s what you have to show them before people lose patience and act rashly.  So go out to the Seam, to the alleys in the Merchant Quarter, to the school cafeteria at lunchtime… just show them the truth of Twelve.  It’ll do more good than you know.”

Maybe for Katniss and me, too.  If we can gain even more support from the Capitol, if we can provide them with more uplifting stories thanks to the ripple effects of the Games, then it’ll be that much harder for Snow to move against us blatantly.  Haymitch is right: our greatest defense is the fondness that the citizens of the Captiol have for us.  We need to work that to our advantage.

Just then, Haymitch’s current opponent throws his hands up in defeat.  He slams out of the room, taking the blustery diversion with him.  The other bureau members look far too resentful to bother opening their mouths and start another row with our mentor.  Our private moment with the mayor is over.

The mayor cuts through the sudden tension in the room with a bland dismissal, “Thank you for stopping by today, Miss Everdeen, Mr. Mellark.  You’ll be hearing from us once we’ve considered your proposal.”

Finished dancing on its ashes, more like.  Those hard-eyed, pinched faces won’t be considering anything except how to make Haymitch Abernathy and anyone associated with him regret being born.

“What the hell just happened in there?” Katniss hisses at our mentor.  If not for her hand in mine, she probably would have caught up to him on the dirt road already.

I’d like to know the answer to that, too, but the camera crew is still shadowing us.  I keep my voice down.  “Haymitch, tell me you didn’t set that up with Mayor Undersee.”

“Set what up?”

He’s trying too hard to look confused.  Haymitch never looks confused even when he is.  It’s a source of pride for the bastard.

“Hey,” I say quietly.  “If you don’t tell us what’s up, we’re not going to be able to trust you.”

“And I told _you,”_  he retorts snidely, “that it’s your call.”

Right.  That’s what he’d said at the breakfast table as the train had zoomed towards Twelve.  I hadn’t heard the warning so clearly then, but that’s what this is.  A warning… or an invitation.  If Katniss and I can figure out what the hell he’s up to, we’re welcome to join the party.

Okay, so.  Why would Haymitch want to give us a few uninterrupted and unobserved minutes with the mayor of Twelve?

Something is going on here.  Beside me, Katniss is equally tense and I think it’s going to be pretty obvious to anyone watching today’s footage that we’re upset.  Thank God for that little hill, which is now separating us from the cameras.

“Don’t,” Katniss grits out, “gamble with my sister’s life, Haymitch.”

“Then don’t,” he returns, “forget to smile for the cameras and make kissy faces with your honeybuns, sweetheart.”

Now seems like a great time to step into a pothole and trip myself.  When I do, Katniss is right there, tucking herself against my side, under my shoulder, and wrapping her arm across my back, avoiding my still-fading bruise.

My body relaxes helplessly into hers and she leans into mine.  I brush my fingertips over her shoulder in random, absent-minded patterns.

_We’re ready for our close-up now, Caesar._

“What’s so funny?” she mutters and it’s only then that I realize I’m smiling.

“Nothing,” I answer honestly.  This isn’t funny.  Not at all.  The night before the Games, all I’d wanted was a way to keep from becoming another piece in their game, but I am.  So is Katniss.  And since Haymitch hasn’t abandoned us completely, it must be that we have some part yet to play.

No, there’s nothing funny about this.

“What are they planning?” Katniss sighs out later that evening.  She stares at her rinsed toothbrush.  Perhaps seeing a microphone in its place.  Haymitch had invited the camera crew to film our family dinner tonight and they’d lingered through cleanup, the interviewer asking ridiculous questions.

_“What is your favorite color on Peeta, Katniss?”_

_“Any thoughts on mentoring volunteers for next year’s Reaping?”_

_“What kind of surprises do you have in store for us for the Victory Tour?”_

I could have killed Haymitch for letting them into Katniss’ house knowing full well that any refusal would have looked like Katniss and I have something to hide.  At least he’d made himself useful by kicking them out at nine o’clock.

God, I’m so tired from being constantly on guard and taking point all evening that I totally zone out as I scrub my molars.  Have I brushed both sides, top and bottom?  I honestly can’t remember.  With a sigh, I reapply a line of toothpaste and start over.

Damn it.  My ass is dragging and it’s not even ten o’clock yet.

“Peeta?”

“Huh?  Oh.  Sorry.  Um.”  I shove my toothbrush back in my mouth as Katniss sighs and spears hers into the holder.

Normally, this would be when she’d go to her room and me to mine to pretend we have a chance at a good night’s sleep in separate beds.  Tonight, she curls her fingers around the edge of the counter, gripping it upside down and exposing the burnt-honey-colored flesh of her inner arms.  The skin from her wrist to her elbow reminds me of the lightest of caramelized glazes.  I wonder what she tastes like.

_Stop._

Yes, I have to stop.  I glare at my own much paler arms, pale like raw and unappetizing bread dough.  I stop thinking about caramel and kissing.

I spit in the sink and rinse out my own toothbrush before I take a seat on the closed toilet.  My hip and back ache, but I don’t want to complain.  Actually, I’d much rather have Katniss sit down on my lap and wrap me up in her arms.  God, that sounds like heaven right now.  It’s been a long day.

When I daringly hook a finger into one of the belt loops on her shorts and give it the smallest of tugs, she slides along the counter’s edge and, in the next instant, she’s right where I want her.  My eyes close in pleasure as her hand slides over my shoulders from left to right.  Yes.  This.  Please.  Now and forevermore.

“Something is going on,” she insists belligerently.  “I should be able to figure this out.”

I take a deep breath and let it out.  Pressing my cheek to her shoulder, I mumble, “I’m sure we will.  In the meantime…”

I can tell she doesn’t like our assigned roles in whatever is happening, but we can’t let this affect our priority, which is to appease Snow.

“I don’t know how to be a brainless, naïve teenager,” she grumps.

Biting my lip to keep from smiling, I stealthily move a hand to her waist and dig my fingertips into her side.  She yelps and twitches, her thigh rubbing over my lap.  Oh, God what magnificent torture.

“Peeta,” she scolds.

“What?  Don’t tell me the great and fearsome Katniss Everdeen is ticklish?”  I wiggle my fingers against her muscled side a second time.

She flinches, arching away from me and moving to stand.  I lay an arm over her legs to delay her.  “Okay, okay,” I relent.  “But a brainless teenager would have giggled.  Maybe retaliated.”

Realizing that there’d been some sort of method to my madness after all, she subsides and watches me.  I continue with my lecture.

“Have you ever seen the way a dog forgets what it’s doing the minute it spots a cat?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we’re supposed to be like that.  Easily distracted.  Eager to chase after something we know we’re not going to catch.”

She sighs.  “And giggle, right?”

“Right,” I concur, holding back a chuckle at her consternation.

“So we’re just going to let Haymitch and Undersee use us like Snow is?”

“We don’t really have a choice in the matter, Katniss.”  She burns me with her glare.  I remind her, “We have to do what Snow wants.  That’s what we have to focus on.  That’s our priority.  Whatever Haymitch and Undersee are trying to accomplish is a distant second.”

She slumps a bit and lowers her softening gaze to my T-shirt.  There are lots of interesting stains on this one from a day working with berries my dad had traded Katniss and Gale for at some point last summer.  I think there’s even a hand print on the back somewhere thanks to one of Baxter’s brotherly slaps.

“I know,” she agrees.  “I just hate this.  It’s the arena all over again.”

She’s right.  We’re isolated from what’s really going on by our dome of ignorance, and now I’m not really sure if Haymitch has our best interests at heart.

Even though we wordlessly forgo the ritual of separate beds, neither of us sleep well that night.  Katniss wakes me up three separate times to ask me where we are.

“We’re in your house in the Victors Village,” I murmur each time, rubbing her back.  “We’re in Twelve.  You’re fine.  Everyone’s safe.”

I only manage to sleep long enough to have one nightmare myself, but it’s bad.

“You can tell me,” she urges as I shiver and bite back my sobs.

Her warm hand pushes my hair back off my forehead and the words tumble out: “You came to the clearing… to help me, but you didn’t know about the land mines.  I couldn’t tell you, and you…”  I don’t really have to say it, do I?  I think she can figure out what had happened next.

“Rue told me,” she reassures me on a whisper.

“I told Rue.”

“So you saved me.  Again.”

“So you could save me.  Again.”

“I guess that’s what we do,” she whispers thoughtfully in the darkness.  “We protect each other.”

Part of me thrills to hear those words because I am certain Katniss has never relied on anyone but herself for something like that.  I’m honored she trusts me so completely.

But part of me dies a little because she makes it sound like a duty.  Only yesterday morning, I’d convinced myself that she really does care about me.  Suddenly, I’m not so sure.

“Katniss?”

“Hm?”

“If all of this went away tomorrow and we didn’t have to worry about the future, would you still…?”  The words get stuck in my throat.

“But it’s not going away, Peeta.”

I grit my teeth.  I know she’s right, I just need to know…  “Do you think we could still be friends without everything pushing us together?”

Her hands move over my arms and our fingers tangle together in the dark.  I feel her hair brush my forehead as she moves closer.  The tips of our noses touch.

“For two Victors, the Games do not end—”

I blink, confused.  Is Katniss telling me a limerick?

“To each other strength they will lend—

“To survive it they must—

“Learn how to trust—

“And unexpectedly, they became friends.”

Oh.

Oh, God.

I lift my face to hers and press a kiss to the center of her forehead.  I love her so much it physically pains me to hold in the words.

“This is our life now,” she mouths on an exhalation.

Katniss is far too practical to dwell on what-ifs like me.  She accepts the way things are and focuses on what she can control.  The true miracle in all of this is that she is including me in that journey: _our life._   Our.  Life.  Wherever it is we’re going, Katniss and I are bound together.  I think I’m beginning to understand what it means for us to be partners, and amazingly enough she doesn’t seem to resent it.

I toy with her fingers between us.  “I like this part,” I confess.  “Being with you.”  Moments like this – just the two of us, safe, peaceful, honest – are the best part of all.  Nothing else in my life could ever compare.

Sleep is creeping over me when she whispers again.  Two words.  Two words that sound like, “Me, too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so Haymitch is working something behind the scenes... I have no idea what it could be. Certainly not a rebellion or anything like that. (^_~)


	13. Families

 

**Peeta's POV**

 

I wake up when a sunbeam hits me in the face.  My arms are empty but my back is warm.  Katniss is pressed up against me from behind, one hand tangled in the slack of my T-shirt at my waist.  I resist the urge to stretch, to shift, to search for her slender fingers.  My veins tingle as my blood zings and zips from my fingertips and toes to my belly.  I try to calm down.  I have to get myself under control before Katniss wakes up.

And then it hits me.  I’m in Katniss’ bed.  She’s curled up against me, pressing her warm body into my back.  I can feel her breaths through the weave of my T-shirt, between my shoulder blades.

I’m _welcome_ here.

How had this happened?  Her and me.  In the same bed.  Holding onto each other.  Holding back the nightmares.   Trying to shed just one more layer of fear.

I don’t know.  I don’t know how this happened, but it’s real.

Real.

Oh, God.

I can’t go back to my life before.  I can’t go back to being alone.  I need her.  I will never stop needing her.  My life has changed.  I’ve changed.

I think of the stuff I’d brought over just a couple of days ago: the clothing and sketchbooks in the room on the other side of the shared bathroom.  I think of Prim and Katniss’ mother asleep across the hall.  I think of cooking breakfast side-by-side with Katniss and bumping elbows as we wash the dinner dishes.  I think of my prosthetic leg leaning against the wall beside the bed.  This is my life now.

I’m terrified.

I shouldn’t be this nervous, but it feels like I’m being absorbed into the Everdeen family.  I’ve never been an older brother to a twelve-year-old girl before.  I’ve never had a mother who’d gently assessed my injuries.  I can’t quite figure out what I’m supposed to be to Katniss.  The term “partner” is becoming more and more undefined with every day we spend together.  She hadn’t objected to being called my girlfriend in front of the cameras, but I know that’s not what she is.  Katniss needs a boyfriend like she needs Beauty Base Zero.  And yet here I am.  She needs _me,_  but what does that mean?

I doubt she even knows, but that’s fine.  It’s fine.  We have time.  We’ll figure it out.  Together.

She stirs.  I take a deep breath and roll over as she lifts her head off the pillow.  I don’t even think about it; I tuck my arm underneath her shoulders.  She lays her cheek against my chest.

“Hi,” she mouths.

“Hi,” I answer.

We look out the window, letting the sun blind us.  It’s another day.  I don’t know what to do with it.  My life at the bakery is over.  Katniss can’t hunt until the cameras leave.  Mayor Undersee has asked us to try and keep them here for as long as possible.  Haymitch won’t come clean about the movements both Katniss and I can sense shifting around in the shadows just beyond our line of sight.

The only thing I can think of that will keep us sane at this point is our routine.  So that’s what we do until we get the first rainy day since our return.  I revel in it because gives me the chance to make good on my promise to show Katniss how to bake bread.  I take a page from Katniss’ book, remembering when she’d shown me how to shoot with a bow and arrow, and I crowd her back, guiding her hands with mine as she folds ingredients, mixes, and kneads.

My arms aren’t all that much longer than hers, so when I have to mold her grip or shift her hands, my front presses against her back until there’s no space between us.  I grit my teeth and pray that the coarse fabric of my trousers will keep things under control.  Katniss is wrapped up in my old baking apron and she looks delicious with smears of flour dusting her cheek and chin.

“Is baking usually a team effort?” she mutters as I adjust the angle of her wrist for the sixth time since she started the kneading phase.

“No,” I reply honestly.  “But we are a team.”

“Yeah,” she says… and doesn’t push me away.  That doesn’t necessarily mean that she wants me to drape myself all over her like I want to: chin on her shoulder, breath against her neck, hands at her waist.  No, that would be too much, but I’m not strong enough to step away.  I compromise: I press my lips to her braid.  I don’t think I imagine that she leans into the touch just a little.

We eat nearly half the loaf for lunch with leftover stew from dinner the night before.  I tell Katniss it’s the best bread I’ve ever had.

“You promised not to lie to me,” she grouches.

I reach for her hand, capture her fingers, and lift her knuckles to my lips for a kiss.  “I’m not lying.”

When she doesn’t argue, I know she sees the truth of it in my eyes.  We are honest with each other.  We protect each other.  We trust each other.  I reach across the table and brush a dusting of flour from the underside of her chin.

“Thanks,” she mutters, her voice cracking around the edges like a slightly-burnt pie crust.

I wonder how many people get to hear Katniss like this.  I can’t help feeling like sitting with her like I am is special, that she wouldn’t be this unsteady with Prim or this soft with Hawthorne.

Gale Hawthorne.

I know she has a connection to him and if she ever asks me, I’ll admit to being jealous.  Hell, I was jealous of him before I’d ever really met Katniss.   Now that I know how amazing she is, I’m consumed by envy whenever I think of seeing the two of them together at the backdoor of the bakery.  Those moments might have been mine if I’d just talked to her after her father had died.  I hate myself for giving up so easily.

“Rory said his mom wants to invite us over for dinner tonight,” Prim suddenly announces when she bursts through the front door just as Katniss and I are tidying up the kitchen.  She plonks down in the nearest chair, practically bouncing up and down on her seat.  “Mom’s going to meet us over there.”

I glance sideways at Katniss.  She’s scowling, but her fingers are tapping against the countertop in anxious anticipation.  She says haltingly, “We shouldn’t impose, Prim.”

“Oh, come on, Katniss!” Prim begs.  “You know I only get to see Rory in the hallways at school now.”

But this isn’t just about her and Rory.  It’s about Katniss and Gale.  She misses him.  I can see it in the slump of her shoulders.

Katniss looks at me.  Her gaze searches my expression.  Not to see if I’m okay with this, but if I think it’ll put them in danger.

I give her the brightest smile I can manage.  “Hey.  You used to hang out with your cousin like every day, right?  I bet he misses you.”

She blinks and I can see a moment of recognition.  Had she forgotten the cover story?

Across the room, Prim shifts guiltily.  She knows the truth.  I look up and give her a wink.  She relaxes with a relieved smile.  Yeah, I know the truth.  She doesn’t need to worry about me.

When I swing back around to Katniss with an expectant expression, I see that she’s already smiling… and it’s _that look._  The one she’d first given me back in the Training Center.  I smile helplessly in reply.  I may not be looking forward to an evening knocking around this empty house by myself while she’s hanging out with Gale Hawthorne, but I’ll do anything to earn that warmth in her eyes.

“Okay.  Let’s go.”

It’s not until she grabs my elbow that I realize I’ve been invited, too.

Oh.  Um, shit.  Well, this is gonna be awkward.

I hold the umbrella for Katniss and she carries the bread and spice cake I’d whipped up for dinner tonight.  Prim splashes through the puddles ahead of us in her new, bright yellow rain slicker.  I turn up my collar against the damp chill and smile despite the camera crew at our backs.

“When was the last time you played in the rain?” I ask suddenly.

Katniss sighs.  “I can’t even remember.”

“Shame,” I tell her, and it is.

“I’m sure it looks more fun than it really is.”  A smile tugs at her lips as she listens to her mother gently scold Prim as we pass through town.  I wonder if the cameraman will follow us into the Seam, right up to the door of the Hawthorne residence.  Will they call it a shack?  Will they ask Rory if he’ll be volunteering at the next Reaping so his family can have a shot at a house like Katniss’?

I clench my jaw against the surge of disgust.  At least no one sees it.

I’m doubly thankful for the gloomy, rainy evening when the front door to the Hawthorne house opens and Gale’s delighted gaze skips right over Katniss’ head and zooms to me before turning to ice.  I guess I hadn’t been invited after all.  Someone should have told Prim to tell Katniss to suggest that I hang out with Haymitch tonight.

Too late now.

Katniss is busy tugging on a little girl’s dark pigtails – she must be Gale’s little sister but, for the life of me, I can’t remember her name.  Damn.

The little girl hauls Katniss inside.  I take my time folding up and setting aside the umbrella, waiting for Gale to either move out of the way or slam the door in my face.

“Mellark,” he accuses.

“Hawthorne,” I retort.

If he thinks I’m going to try to bully my way in or just slink off into the night, he’s got another thing coming.

With obvious reluctance, he opens the door wider and steps back.  I nod my thanks but don’t push my luck with conversation.

The house is small and grey, like the house Katniss had grown up in, but it’s warm and full to bursting with greetings and conversation and running feet.  I can smell a rich stew simmering in the kitchen and the unfamiliar spices bring a smile of anticipation to my face.

“Who’re you?”

I somehow manage to stop my forward momentum before I step on the same little girl who had welcomed Katniss.

“I’m Peeta Mellark.  I’m Katniss’ friend.”

She narrows her grey eyes at me.  “Gale is Kitty’s friend.”

“A person can have more than one friend,” I answer.  “Can I be your friend?”

She thinks about it for a moment and then nods.

“What’s your name?”

“Posy.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Posy.  Do you like to draw?”

By the time I’m sitting at the table with Posy kneeling on the chair next to mine, my watercolor pencils and sheets of paper scattered over the surface, Katniss has cycled around the room back to Gale.  I try to ignore the way their dark heads tilt toward each other.  Whatever they have is not for me or my eyes.  I focus on holding the arrangement of pencils for Posy’s convenience as she chatters about a neighborhood dog.

Hazelle comes over and says hello before pointing out her other two boys and telling me their names.  Vick, hearing his name, gives up on trying to butt into Prim and Rory’s bubble of conversation and sidles up to the table.

“We’re drawing dogs, birds, and… rainbows,” I conclude with a glance at Posy’s paper.  “Think you can do better?”

“Rainbows are stupid,” he scoffs.

“They are not!” Posy asserts.

I wave the pencils between them like a referee coming between two combatants.  “Hey, now.  No putting down the rainbows.  Posy’s in charge of those.  But we could use some gryphons.”

“What’re those?”

“They’re these huge hawks that have the body and legs of a lion.”

Vick blinks wide eyes at me.  “Seriously?”

“Yeah.  They’re my favorite.  Other than unicorns.”

And before I know it, I’m coaching Vick and Posy on how to draw mythical creatures.  They whine when it’s time to eat and they have to put their pictures away.  Hazelle listens indulgently as they describe the strange beasts I’d told them about.  Rory rolls his eyes but Prim is clearly enraptured by the concept of a sphinx.

“There’s no point in telling them this garbage,” Gale mutters.  Thankfully, my new artists don’t hear him.  

I bite back a grin when Katniss smacks Gale in the arm and scolds him through a scowl.  “Let them have this.  When was the last time you saw Vick smile?”

He shoots a glare in my direction.  I offer to cut the spice cake.

When there’s little more than smears of stew and crumbs left, when my stack of drawing paper has been filled with brilliant colors and each sheet tacked to the drab walls, it’s time to go.  Posy hugs my legs and asks me to come back soon.

“With cake!” she enthuses.

“Of course,” I tell her, “I always have a cake for my friends.”  I chuck her under her chin before looking toward Vick.  “Nice work with those dragons.”

“Thanks.”

And then Katniss is saying her own farewells.  I look away when she embraces Gale, choosing to thank Hazelle for her hospitality instead.  The storm of rambunctious and heartfelt goodbyes subsides and the four of us tromp out into the rain again.  Mrs. Everdeen holds an umbrella for Primrose and I relinquish mine to Katniss when she insists, “You carried it on the way over here.”

As a guy, I know I should probably put up more resistance, but that’d be pointlessly stubborn.  Katniss and I are past that.  “Okay.”

She smiles.  She’s still smiling when I come into the bathroom to brush my teeth before bed.  This right here – her happiness – makes whatever awkwardness I’d felt over the course of the evening worth it.  “Thanks,” she mumbles as she curls up beside me in bed.  “For going over there with us.”

“None are needed.  I had fun.”

“You did,” she agrees.  “I saw.”

And I discover that I don’t mind that she’d spent the whole evening talking to Gale because she’d still noticed _me._

I fall into bed, content and peaceful.  So of course it ends up being a really bad night.

I dream I’m battling on top of the Cornucopia again, but instead of Cato, it’s Gale.  I toss him off the structure and into the pack of mutts and I watch as he’s been torn apart.  The sharp thrill of my own perverse satisfaction shakes-shudders-rolls through me until the beasts lose interest and wander off, revealing a torn and mangled corpse with long, black hair, sightless grey eyes, and a silver bow: _Katniss!_

I wake up, arms wind-milling, as I fall out of bed.  Tangled up in the sheet as I am, I nearly bring Katniss crashing down on top of me.

“Peeta!”

Her rasping breath echoes in the clinging darkness.  I flinch away from her hand, blinking up at her as she leans over the edge of the bed, precariously balanced, reaching for me.

I know I don’t deserve her loyalty, but I can’t ignore it.  Because we’re partners and we haul each other back from the brink.

She shakes her hand insistently in front of my face and I take it, letting her pull me back onto the mattress.  “What was it?” she asks, wrapping her arms around my quivering belly.

I can’t tell her.  I can’t say the words and make it real.  I just clutch her to me and murmur into her hair, “A nightmare.  Just a nightmare.”

She falls asleep, but I don’t.  Eventually I give up and shuffle into the bathroom to wash up.  I’d had a shower the night before, but I opt to take another one even though I know that no amount of water – scalding or otherwise – will be able to peel the monster from me.

Shaving doesn’t help, either, but it’s gotta get done.  Part of me wants to grow a beard just to spite my prep team and the Capitol, but that would work against the innocent kids-in-love image Haymitch told me to aim for.

God, sometimes I feel so alone in this, even with Katniss next to me.  Weary.  I’m sure staring up at the ceiling and waiting for the sun to come up is only going to add to my exhaustion.  I hope nothing goes wrong today because I don’t think I can roll with the punches right now.

I take my time getting dressed and making my way down the stairs.  I haven’t been this careful in a while – the daily exercise routine has really been paying off – but I’m off-balance in my soul and I don’t know how else to compensate.

“…should hate you.  You deserve it.”

Katniss’ accusation pulls me up short.  I freeze beside the kitchen sink and glance out the window.  On the back porch, Katniss is facing off with Baxter.  I simultaneously realize the significance of the day and that Katniss has never looked more breathtaking.

“I don’t really give a shit what you think of me,” he blusters back.

“You should care what _he_  thinks.  Otherwise, you’ll keep failing him.”

Baxter’s meaty hands fist.  His jaw clenches and the muscles in his neck stand out.  I move toward the door to intercede.

“You’re his brother.  You’re the oldest,” Katniss bites out before he can bellow.  “Why didn’t you take that hit for him?”

I freeze.

And just like that, Bax gives in.  He leans back against the railing.  Crosses his arms over his chest.  He surveys the backyard and the line of trees beyond with feigned indifference.  I absently note the lack of cameras.  Perhaps Monday is their day off?

Bax growls, “Because it wasn’t gonna kill him.  He’s had worse.”

“That’s no excuse,” Katniss hisses.

His chin jerks back around.  His eyes narrow.  “It’s a necessity,” he retorts through his teeth.  “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Everdeen.  Okay?  You don’t know.”

She glares at him in silence, daring him to go on.

Haltingly, he does, “It’s one thing to stand up for your kid sister against the Capitol at the Reaping.  That’s one moment among thousands.  Imagine doing that every day – every Goddamn day.  There’s no way you survive it.  There’s no way you can control it.  It comes at you again and again and again.”

“So you just give up?”

“No.  You adapt.”

I curl my fingers around the edge of the countertop.

Baxter takes a half step back until the post pushes between his shoulders again.  “I agree with her.  That’s the only way to diffuse her.  Duff just kind of… fades into the background.  It’s no fun kicking a pathetic little puppy that won’t fight back.”

“And Peeta lies,” Katniss supplies.

Baxter shakes his head in frustration.  “He’s good with words, but there’s this look in his eyes.  It sets her off every time.”

“What look?”

“Peet says one thing, but his eyes say another.”  He shakes his head in exasperation.  “Even though he’s never said a word against her, he’s always been a stubborn little shit, doing whatever he wants.  I think that’s what really gets to her.  She can’t make him stop believing whatever he wants, thinking whatever he wants.  What’s the word…?” he asks himself, frowning.

He props his hands on his hips.  I can’t believe he’s actually devoting genuine thought to this, but his mannerisms don’t lie.  My asshole of a brother is being serious.  For once.  A second passes.  Two.

“Defiant,” he finally summarizes with an air of satisfaction.  “Peet’s always been like that, but in a quiet way.  I think that’s what pisses her off so much: he’s got a mind of his own and she can’t fight that.  Can’t beat it out of him.”

I hold my breath.  Katniss holds her tongue.

“She’s gotta have control.  I give it to her.  I take her side.  Duff goes with the flow.  But Peet…  She knows she can’t touch him, no matter how many times she hits him, no matter what kind of bullshit she spits at him.”  His smirk brims with dark satisfaction.  “I ain’t gonna lie and say I didn’t love watching him rile her up again and again over the years, but I didn’t let her break him,” he insists, “and I never will.  But if she doesn’t work through it, it’ll only be worse for him in the end.”

Katniss is completely still.  I don’t even think she’s blinking.

“So, don’t Goddamn judge what you don’t know shit about,” Baxter concludes.  “He’s my brother, and I wouldn’t be doing him any favors by protecting him from every single damn thing’d she throw at him.  If I had, he never would have made it back home.”

Katniss’ head jerks to the side in sharp denial.  “No.  I wouldn’t have let that happen.”

“Maybe,” Baxter allows.  “But then it wouldn’t have been a man who’d stepped off that train.”

She doesn’t have a response to that.

To my surprise, he elaborates, “Peet’s different now.  I mean, he has the balls to back his play.”  He chuckles.  “Been waiting for this day to come for a long time.”

Oh, has he?

Sensing Katniss’ contemplative air, he smarmily drawls, “You don’t _have to_  agree with me.”

“I don’t.  You’re an ass.”

“Yeah.  But I’m proud of my littlest brother.  And you’re reaping the benefits.  So shut up about it and move on to the next complaint, Everdeen.”

“I don’t have another.  Don’t need one.”

Bax nods.  “So…?”  He’s waiting for Katniss’ verdict.  So am I.

“It must be lonely,” she finally muses in a tight voice, “to not have anyone.”

He grits his teeth and the muscles along his jaw bunch.

“It’s not too late.”

He looks at her like she’s lost her mind.  “Yeah, it is.”

Katniss barks out a short, disbelieving laugh.  “You’re an idiot.”

Bax’s shoulders relax.  “Yeah.  So I’ve been told.”

She shakes her head at him in disbelief.  “All that – it’s in the past.”

“You don’t forget a lifetime of shit like that.”

“Then don’t ask him to.”

“Huh.  Why didn’t I think of that?”

Katniss rolls her eyes at him.

Baxter’s next smirk sends a shot of adrenaline through me.  “Didn’t take Pretty Peety long to make himself at home here, eh?”

“You say it like it was his idea.”

I lurch in the direction of the kitchen door before my asshole brother says what is undoubtedly going to earn him a punch in the face.

“Oh, it was.  He just let you think you came up with it all on your own.  Just wait.  He’ll—”

The backdoor slams open under my sweaty hands.  “Kick your ass,” I snarl, fighting against the flush crawling up my neck.

Baxter holds up his hands.  “Sorry, Peety.  Not trying to cockblock you or anything.”

I’m going to kill him.  I don’t care if he is my brother.

I take a step in his direction.  “One more word, Baxter, and I will toss your ass off this porch.”

He arches a brow at me, daring me to give it my best shot.  Our standoff continues, unbroken.  I wait for him to open his fat mouth and call me on it.  His gaze drops to my prosthetic foot and I realize I hadn’t bothered with socks or shoes this morning.

His dismissive snort has barely had time to break the silence before he’s flying backward onto the scraggly lawn three steps below.  I blink.  I lower my arms.  I smirk at him.

“The hell!” he chokes out, dragging air back into his lungs.

“I wasn’t bluffing.”

“No shit.”

I straighten up, feeling lighter than I would have guessed possible given my rough start this morning.  I probably shouldn’t be feeling so proud of myself.

“Nice shot.”  Katniss glances over at me.  Her mouth twitches with the smallest twinge of amusement.  

I grin back.  “Thanks.”

Baxter pulls himself to his feet.  “Yeah, yeah.  Yuk it up.”  He squints at Katniss.  “Just you wait.  That little sister of yours is gonna knock you on your ass one day, Everdeen.  And I’m gonna sit back and enjoy the show.”

I wordlessly take Katniss’ hand and lead her past my slightly gasping jerk of a brother and into my house.  We have bread to bake.  She tugs on my arm just as the screen door snaps shut behind us.  She glances back at Baxter as he hobbles over.

“When are we starting wrestling lessons?” she asks and I chuckle.  She’s actually worried about Prim doing something like that to her.  Literally or metaphorically, I’m not sure which.

“I’ve got a three o’clock spot open.”  I say it like my entire day doesn’t revolve around her anyway.  Heavy footsteps shake the floorboards and I bite back a sigh.  “Tomorrow?” I amend.

She glances in my brother’s direction and nods.  “Tomorrow’s good.”

Baxter moans and gripes up the steps before banging through the backdoor.  I turn to face him.  “Outta my way, little Peety,” he grumps.  “I’m here to see what all the fuss is about over that Capitol shower of yours, not your baby face.”

“I hate to break it to you,” I tell him, heading for the sack of flour beside the pantry door, “but there’s no shower in the world that can make your mug look decent.”

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” Baxter barks as Katniss pulls out a mixing bowl.

“Baking.”

“So that’s what you guys are calling it?” he muses, his mouth twisting into a leer that I’ll have to knock off of his face before too long.  “Lemme guess – there’s a bun in the oven?”

I smack him on the back of the head and point toward the stairs.  “Go wash your mouth out with soap, bonehead.”

“And your brain,” Katniss mutters.  She’s trying to look unamused by my method of retaliation, but I can see the tiniest of twinkles in her eyes.

“You’re assuming he has one.”

She snorts.

Baxter replies wordlessly.  I roll my eyes at the rude gesture.

“And wash behind your ears,” I add.

Katniss kicks the proverbial winning goal: “What would Madge think if you _forgot?”_

Bax swats an arm at us as if to knock our teasing out of the air.  “Kiss my ass, Everdeen.”

“Sit on it and spin, Mellark.”

Baxter clamors up the stairs.

I only have eyes for Katniss.  I wink.  She smirks.  Oh, yes.  Katniss is going to love Mondays from now on.

Maybe I am, too.

“Should I invite Madge over for dinner next week?” she asks that night as we get ready for bed.

I almost choke on the froth of toothpaste in my mouth.  “I’ll make the cookies,” I offer with a wink and a stretchy smile.  I suspect that giving Baxter hell has become a newfound hobby of hers and I’m looking forward to seeing how it plays out.  There aren’t enough people willing to call Bax on his shit and he is full of it.  Absolutely.

“You blame him,” I assess quietly once I’ve spat out the bubbles in my mouth and rinsed.

She doesn’t deny it.  “He’s the oldest.  He should have been looking out for you.”

I don’t argue with her on it.  I feel a twinge of guilt at not defending him but… to hell with it.  Part of me wants to blame him.  Why hadn’t he stepped up last Wednesday and talked our mother down?  Although, given the circumstances, I’m not sure that he could have.

“What set her off?”

I glance up at the mirror, catching Katniss’ thoughtful frown reflected in the glass.  “Um, me coming home, I guess,” I hedge.

“Peeta.”

I try not to wince.

“If you don’t tell me, I’m going to ask Baxter.”

The betrayal is sharp.  Biting.  “Thanks for the warning,” I snarl.  “It’s so nice to know you trust me.”

When I move to toss my hand towel in the general direction of the laundry basket, her hand clamps onto my wrist and stops me.  “I won’t ask him.  You’re right.  I’m sorry.”

Her hand drops.  She draws in a deep breath.  “Will you tell me why?  Please.”

_Because I brought you into the bakery._

_Because I lived out a dream and bought you something you wanted._

_Because you kissed me for the cameras._

_Because you’re from the Seam._

_Because I’ve always chosen you over her._

I shudder with realization.  “I think Bax was right.”

“About what?”

“She couldn’t change me.  She tried for years, but she couldn’t.  No matter what she did or said.  None of it ever changed my mind.”

She hovers, waits.  She wants to know what it is that my mother has tried for years to beat out of me.

I look her in the eye.  “She couldn’t make me hate you… and I couldn’t lie about it.”  She blinks three times in rapid succession, clearly as surprised as I am by the unvarnished truth.  I lift a hand to her jaw and brush the line of it with my fingertips.  “Ever since that first day of school when I heard you sing, I’ve had this crazy—”  I search for the right word.  It isn’t love.  I hadn’t known her then, so it couldn’t have been love.  Maybe it had been something like…  “—faith.  In you.”  Yes.  Faith.  That sounds very right.  “I believed in you.  You sang and smiled, and I knew that no matter what, everything was going to be okay because there were beautiful things in the world.  You showed me that.

“And all these years, she’s been trying to replace that faith with control… and I’ve never let her.  That’s why,” I conclude.  I hear the words and I feel them through and through.  For an instant, the world makes a little more sense than it had a few minutes ago.

Katniss’ hand reaches up to cover mine, to hold it beside her face.  She gapes at me, expression empty.  She’s processing.  I don’t mind.  I’m patient.

And then Katniss opens her mouth.  “Peeta, you know I’m not—”

“Shh.”  I press a finger to her lips and give her a dopey grin.  “I know what you’re going to say.”

A single brow tweaks upward in silent question.

She’s going to tell me she’s nothing special, that my faith is misplaced, but it’s not.  Nothing she can say will change my mind.  “Let me have this one delusion, Katniss.”

A single, hot, frustrated breath bathes my finger.  She pulls away.  “Well, as long as you don’t try and sell me on it, let’s call it a draw.”

“Deal.”  I pause in the middle of reaching for the light switch.  “Although, we do seem to have a lot of paradigm-shifting discussions in this room, don’t we?”

She smirks softly.  “And at the kitchen sink.”

“And once on the sofa.”

“Right.”

I’m still grinning when she joins me in bed after opening the window.  My artificial leg is leaning against the wall in its usual place.  The lights go off.  Her head rests on my shoulder.  Our fingers lace together over my stomach.  Today turned out to be a pretty good day after all.

 


	14. Maneuvers

 

**Peeta's POV**

 

 

The next morning, we work on replenishing Mrs. Everdeen’s empty pantry.  Baxter had whined and moaned about how unfair it was to be spending his day off from the bakery _baking,_ so he and I had squared off in the backyard to wrestle for most of the morning.  I’d come out of the shower for lunch to find both him and Katniss having a seemingly civil conversation at the kitchen table, which had both awed and terrified me.  Later, he’d told me she’d threatened to spit in his stew is he didn’t get his head out of his ass.

As if I’d needed further proof of how awesome Katniss is.

And now, she’s spending the morning working on a bread assembly line with me.  Maybe most people would think that’s pretty lame, but I sure don’t.

“This is really working,” I muse as Katniss and I haul our sacks of bread out to the Seam.

She gives me a look, prompting me to explain.

“Well, your mom’s a healer.  I didn’t think many people would come to her for food.”

“Food is medicine,” Katniss retorts.  “She used to have to watch parents take their starving kids home with nothing to give them.  Now things are different.”

I’m glad I can help, but I know it’s not a real solution.  I can buy the flour, oil, and yeast, but who will make these loaves when Katniss and I are on our Victory Tour?  I don’t want these people to depend on me like we’re all forced to depend on the Capitol.

“Maybe we should leave some ingredients at your mother’s clinic and offer baking classes.  Do you think anyone would come?”

She knows what I’m asking: would the people from the Seam trust a boy from the Town?  “If I’m there,” she proposes.

The people here already respect Katniss.  That’s easy to see: they nod to her when we make the trek to her old house.  No one talks to me, but that’s fine.  I’m Katniss’ partner and that’s enough for me.

The camera crew follows us, but we ignore them.  Mrs. Everdeen puts Katniss to work patching the roof – it’d leaked when it had rained on Sunday – and I clean the flue.

More than once, Mrs. Everdeen gives me a speculative look – the kind parents with daughters often give Baxter – and I try to drag out the job for as long as I can.  Since the first talk she’d had with me had kind of failed, I can sense a second on the horizon.  And I have no interest whatsoever in talking to Katniss’ mother about, um, being _careful._   I mean, hell.  It’s not even like that between us.

Although, when Katniss trips her way back into the house – windblown, sweaty, and flushed – it takes every ounce of concentration I have to _not_ think about her _that way._

Aw, hell.  Who am I kidding?  We sleep in the same bed every damn night.  It’s not like it’s a stretch of the imagination to picture her lying next to me, under me, over me, looking like _this._

“What about that wrestling lesson?” she asks as we make our way back home.

God, how does she do it?  Twist the knife of my want just a little sharper?  Her timing is unbelievable.

We have nothing else planned for the afternoon, so I feel obligated to agree.  “Sure.”  My voice is too casual, though.  I brace myself for her speculative stare as she dissects my motives… but she just nods.

Half an hour later, Katniss bites out accusingly, “You and Baxter made this look easy yesterday.”

“Did we?”  I grin at her.  I shouldn’t be grinning.  I shouldn’t be letting myself have any fun at all, but this **_**_is_**_**  fun.  So much fun.  Seeing her look as flustered and frustrated as I’d felt earlier is an incredibly satisfying revenge.

“Yes,” she asserts, trying to tug her hands free from mine.  I don’t loosen my grip.  If I go easy on her at all, she’ll snarl at me for days.  And she’d swear off of wrestling lessons.  Now that I’ve got an excuse to be in full contact with her while conscious, I am not letting it go so easily.  Cameras or no cameras.

I hold steady, leading with my left foot as I brace myself against her surprising strength.  We’ve been facing off for the last five minutes, trying to pull and spill each other to the ground.  She’d picked up how to fall and roll safely pretty quickly.  Now we’ve added a little grappling to the mix.

She drops her left shoulder suddenly, but I’m ready for the move and counter by stepping forward with my left leg.  Before she can twist the other way, my right foot moves into stable position, centering me again.

Katniss huffs with exasperation.  “How am I supposed to get you down if you keep this up?”

I laugh.  “Would you like me to make this easy for you?”

“Damn it.  No.”

“That’s what I thought.”  I reaffirm my grip on her hands, my fingers still locked between hers and our palms squashed together.  “Try again.”

She does.  I counter easily, maintaining our face-off.

“You’re not thinking… dramatically enough,” I coach, wondering if she’s going to clue in.

Her expression tightens with determination.  She leaps backward.  I shake her hands free of mine before she can haul me forward.  We circle each other, hands up.  I wait for her to lunge.  It’s only a matter of time before she tries again.

She darts within range.  I grasp her hands, drag them wide and pull her close, tripping her over my left knee.  She scrambles to keep her feet under her, but I outweigh her and I’ve got leverage.

No contest.

I hold her hands to the ground on either side of her head as I crouch over her, my right leg bracing me up.  I still don’t trust the prosthetic to go precisely where I need it to in order to stay balanced and I’ll be damned if I fall on Katniss and hurt her.

“You’re a rotten teacher,” she accuses.

I chuckle.  “I told you to ask Duff.”

She huffs.  “He’d let me win like he lets Prim.”

I feel my brows arch upward.  “So what are you complaining about?”

“You’re not telling me how to do this.  You’re just letting me make an ass of myself.”

“True,” I agree.

Her glare makes my grin widen.

“But if you’d stop worrying about hurting my leg, you might actually win for once.”

Her nostrils flare at the dig.  “You asked for it,” she growls.

Don’t I know it.

I pull her up and she wastes no time going on the offensive.  She ducks under my left arm, keeping her grip tight on my hands and actually tries to flip me over her back.  I stumble with her but shift my weight back to counter.

“Nice try,” I goad.

She knocks her shoulder against my chest, but I’ve got my right leg braced.  I don’t budge… but she does.

I grab for her supporting knee and take her down yet again.

“Now you’re just playing with me.”

I don’t deny it.  “And I’m having a great time.”

She snorts with disgust.  And then she kicks my artificial limb out from under me.

“Hah hah!” she crows, tackling me in the chest and sitting on my stomach.

“That was illegal,” I inform her, giddy from her infectious and triumphant grin.  My laughter bounces her up and down on my belly.  Undeterred, she catches my arms just above the elbow – like I’d taught her – and holds me down.  I could dislodge her easily, but I don’t.  I’ve got to save some for the next lesson, right?

“So?  It worked.”

I give her a disbelieving look.  “Like I couldn’t pin you in half a second.”

“If you could, you would have already.”

“You asked for it.”

She braces herself over me, using all of her weight, but it doesn’t help her.  She squawks indignantly as I sit up, wrap my arms around her hips, and toss her over my shoulder as I stand up.

“Put me down.”

“Not until you’ve got a strategy for pinning me,” I inform her.  She wiggles and her hip bumps against my jaw.  I ignore my helplessly blissful reaction and focus.  “Come on, Katniss.  Think it through.  If you’ve got me by the hands and you can’t kick—”

“Yes, I can.”

I ignore her grumbling.  “—and I outweigh you and you don’t have enough room to gain momentum or leverage—”

“How is this helping?  You’re telling me everything I can’t do.”

“Which leaves what?”

She’s quiet for a moment.  “Okay.  Fine.  Put me down.”

Biting back a grin of anticipation, I do.  Surprisingly enough, she doesn’t immediately attack.  I straighten up.  She watches me from a distance of two steps away.

_This will never get old,_  I think as her grey eyes scan me, take me in.  I am her sole focus.  Oh, God.  Yes.  This.  Just _this._

She tilts her head to the side.  A spark flickers in her eyes.  She lifts her hands, crouches slightly, places her feet the way I’d shown her.  Mirroring her, I wait for her move.  She begins circling me.  I turn to the left again and again, following her movements and keeping my body facing hers squarely.

She steps forward, hands reaching—

She ducks under my arms, wraps hers around my waist and uses the weight of her body to spin me around on my uncertain left leg.  I wince as the prosthetic refuses to follow the twisting motion of my knee, and then I’m tumbling.

“Ugh!” I grunt, belly-down on the lawn.

Again, Katniss’ hands latch onto my forearms.  She rests her weight on her knees which she digs into the backs of my thighs.

“Ow,” I inform her flatly.

She hastily slides off of me.  “Sorry.”

When I roll over, I’m grinning.  My left leg hurts.  My hamstrings are throbbing.  Overall, I’d say this was a pretty good first lesson.

“Nice work,” I congratulate her.

She doesn’t smile back.  “Is your leg okay?”

I shrug.  It doesn’t really matter if it is or not.  The important thing is that I’ve come through for Katniss on this one thing.  Maybe it’s not a big thing, but she’d asked me for this and I could give it to her.  That feels really, really great.  I meet her gaze and grin like an idiot.  “Incredible.”

Every few days, we stop by the business bureau until we finally get the answer we want: the first shipment of livestock – pigs and goats and chickens – is on its way.  They’d cost a lot and both Katniss and I had ended up contributing some of our own winnings to bring them here.  Approval from the Capitol had been grudging but once I’d pointed out the advantages to the bureaucrat I’d spoken to over the phone personally, things had moved forward.

Katniss had been smiling so widely as I’d hung up that, for a moment, I’d forgotten we were in the mayor’s office.  “You really are good at this,” she’d whispered.

I’d smiled back and reached out to brush my fingers over her cheek.  “I’m only as good as my inspiration.”

The words are truer than she could ever guess: just thinking of Katniss’ past struggle to survive moves me to do more than I ever would have dared all on my own because someone else’s Katniss could be out there, in need of help.

Today, we trek to her old house to make our delivery, but we don’t stay indoors.  Katniss collects a tatty-looking, hand-bound book from upstairs and meets me out on the back stoop.  It won’t take long for the camera crew to find us, but that’s part of the fun.  We try to play a game of tag with them, keeping them engaged in our unfolding story, but I’m always careful to follow Haymitch’s advice and keep things simple and innocent between us.  The slow burn smoldering in my bones has become a permanent fixture of my life, a condition I’ll never be cured of.

“What’s this?” I ask when Katniss plunks the book into my hands.

“A record of local herbs and plants.”  She leans against my shoulder as I carefully open the cover.  “I used this to get ingredients for my mother when I was younger, but I could still remember my dad showing me these plants when we’d go out.  That helped.  Stopped me from making some dangerous mistakes.”  She pauses and sighs, chews the inside of her cheek at some worrisome memory.  When I bump her shoulder with mine, she continues, “Rory and Vick have been having a hard time figuring out what they’re supposed to bring my mom.”

“You could go with them,” I suggest carefully.  It’s unlikely that all of these plants can be found inside the fence, but surely some of them are around here somewhere.  And if she really did have to go beyond the fence for a few hours, Haymitch and I could come up with some kind of diversion.

“I can’t go with them every time,” she argues softly.  She worries about the same things I do: she doesn’t want anyone to depend on her.  She wants Twelve to be self-sustaining.  Well, as self-sustaining as it can be all things considered.  “They need a guide.”

Very true.  I flip through the pages, eyeing the rough sketches and lengthy descriptions.  “Could use a few more illustrations,” I say diplomatically.

“My thoughts exactly,” she answers triumphantly and retrieves my small case of watercolor pencils from her back pocket.  When had she nicked it from my nightstand?  “What do you say?”

I smile.  “Okay.”

We spend the rest of the afternoon in the Meadow.  Several of the plants mentioned in the book are flourishing there so I have a lot of reference material to work from.  At one point, I look up from the drawing I’m coloring and catch Katniss nibbling on a dandelion.  “Watch out for that Goat’s Breath,” I tease her.

For a second, her face is blank with incomprehension and then she remembers.  My grin widens at the sight of the rarest of rare Katniss Everdeen smiles, the one that shows off her teeth just before she bites her lip and turns away.

Before she can feel embarrassed, I say, “I really liked that story.  About Prim’s goat.”

She shrugs one shoulder.  Yup, she’s embarrassed.

I venture, “That was so smart.  Talking about Prim during the Games.  Just… wow.”  With a shake of my head and an appreciative smile, I bend back to my work, studying the texture of the leaves so I can get them just right…

“What do you mean?”

“Huh?”  When I look up again, she’s watching me with curious, grey eyes.  Maybe she doesn’t know?  “Oh, um.  In the cave.  When you told the story about Lady becoming Prim’s goat, it was brilliant.  I mean, you reminded everyone that you volunteered and you reminded them about how wonderful your sister is.  That she’s someone worth protecting.  It was… amazing.”

Katniss blinks at me.

I feel a crooked grin stretch my lips.  “You didn’t do that on purpose?”

She shakes her head as she looks out at the field of summer wildflowers.  “No.  That’s the sort of thing that you do.  Think about that stuff.”

“Well, you pulled it off.  More than once.”

She stiffens.  “When?”

“With the story you told me in the Arena before the feast.  And during the interview when you shamed Caesar and the audience for thinking dirty thoughts.”  I’m sure I could dig up a few more examples of when Katniss had skillfully used words.  I search my memory.   The conversation we’d had while she was up in that tracker jacker tree comes to mind.  “You could work the cameras and the audience just fine.”

“Because you were there.”

“What?”

The sidelong glance she gives me is brief and wary, as if she expects this admission to offend me in some way.  “Even my alliance with the girl from Five… um, you were there in a way.  I tried to think of what you’d do, what you’d say.”

I’m not offended.  I’m flattered.  “So you really did channel your inner Peeta?”

She huffs out a laugh.

“But the stories and the interview… that was all you, Katniss.  You’re a lot better at this than you realize.”

“I don’t want to be good at it.”

I wish I didn’t have to be.  “I know.”

“Thank you.  For doing this.”

“Sure.”  I reach out and lift her braid out from behind her shoulder, gently settling it in its usual place.  “I’ll handle the lies if you’ll take care of the honesty.”

She doesn’t agree, but she smiles softly.

“Congratulations,” Haymitch drawls two days later from Katniss’ front porch.  “Your fans in the Capitol seem to have had enough of you both.”

“Good,” Katniss mutters, crossing her arms.

I look past Haymitch’s shoulder to where the camera crew is packing up.  They have just enough time to catch the afternoon train.  “Shit,” I breathe.

Both Haymitch and Katniss turn toward me.  I can’t even begin to untangle my thoughts on this.  All I know is that I’ve failed.  I grab the first excuse that pops into my head: “Without them here to film it, how do we even know if the livestock will arrive?”

Haymitch quirks a brow.  “We don’t.”

Katniss blinks, her eyes widening.

Yeah.  We need the camera crew to stay.  Just a little longer.

But how?

I consider grabbing Katniss and kissing her.

No.  Not only am I viscerally repulsed at offering the Capitol something like that for them to trot out, but I can’t bring myself to force Katniss to go along with it.

“How do we get them to stay?” Katniss badgers our mentor, who shrugs.

“I dunno.  Do something… dramatic.”  With that, he ambles over to the reporter.  I can’t hear what he says, but he’s clearly trying to buys us time.

Dramatic.  Dramatic.  Something dramatic.  I try to think of something more explosive than Katniss and I in love and—

Oh, shit.

Channeling my brother Baxter, I wrap a proprietary arm around Katniss’ shoulders and grin toward the lone camera yet pointed in our direction.  Amazingly, Katniss doesn’t even tense.  She gives me a sidelong look, yes, but she trusts me.  Oh, fuck.  She trusts me.

Angling my mouth toward her right ear, I mutter, “We’re going to have our first fight.”

She rears back in genuine confusion, but damn is it absolutely right on cue.

I give her a smug look.  “Oh, come on.  There’s nothing I do that irritates you?  Not even a little?”

Katniss frowns.

I lean in like I’m going for a kiss.  “Shove me back and slap me.”

“This is stupid.”

“And the Capitol will love it.”  Especially when we finally give in and make up, but I’ll think about that later.

“Peeta.”  She braces herself away from me, her hands on my shoulders.  I don’t loosen my arm around her back, bowing her spine.  “We survived together.  So what if I—or you—I mean—what the hell am I supposed to fight with you about?”

I get what she means.  Compared to everything we’d faced and worked to overcome in the Arena, a little thing like pet peeves is ridiculous.  “Okay,” I relent, dropping my arm.  “Maybe the livestock will arrive anyway.”

But maybe they won’t.

I see it the moment Katniss summons her gumption.  “I’m sorry,” she mumbles, her lips barely moving, and then she pounces, shoving me hard enough to stumble.

“Katniss!” I shout, bewildered.  “What—?”

“No!  Enough, Peeta, okay?  Just stop it!”

“Stop what, damn it?”

Through clenched teeth and with fisted hands, she growls, “Enough with the cookies and—just—you—”

Oh my God.  This is the best she can come up with?  We’re screwed.  But before my incredulous expression can morph into disappointment, I manage a disbelieving guffaw.  “So I bake cookies for you.  What’s the big deal?  I just want—”

“It’s not always about what you want, okay?”

“So what is it about?” I challenge loudly.  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Haymitch shifting aside as the camera zooms in and the one that had just been packed away in its case is yanked out.  Just in case they need a better angle, I guess.

“You spoil my sister.”

“She’s a great kid.  She could do with some spoiling.”

“She’s _my_  sister, Peeta!  I’ll decide what she needs.  Not you.”

“Oh for the love of—”  I bite back the rest of my complaint.  “Are you seriously yelling at me for being nice?”

She flushes.

I laugh in her face.  Right in her face.

I’d told her to slap me.  I’m braced for it.  I won’t flinch.  I promise myself I won’t ruin this and flinch like a pathetic loser.   _Come on, Katniss!  Hit me!  HIT ME!_

She lunges, but not toward me.

I blink and, in the next instant, the front door is slamming shut.  The click of the lock turning shocks me out of my stupefied gawking.  “Katniss!”  I grab the door handle and confirm that yes, she really has locked me out of the house.  I bang on the door.  “Open up, Katniss.  Come on!”

“Don’t you have your own house or something?” she shouts back.

I flinch.  “What?  Katniss, what the hell is going on with you?”

“Go away, Peeta!”

“Look, I—will you just hear me out?”

“Shut up!”

Yelling at each other through a closed door.  This is beyond ludicrous.  I trot down the steps, ignoring the camera crew and Haymitch’s amused expression, and race around the side of the house to the kitchen door.

Katniss beats me to it.

The knob rattles in my hand but doesn’t turn.  I bang on the door.  I stir the pot.  “You can’t seriously be worried that Prim likes me better than she does you!”

No answer.

“Katniss!”

Silence.

My eyes narrow.  “Fine!” I bellow at the door.  “When you’re ready to talk about this, maybe give me a call.”

I pivot and make my way down the steps, looking up just as the Capitol interviewer races over with a microphone.  “Peeta!  What seems to be the issue?”

Throwing my hands up in the universal gesture for frustration, I cough out a laugh.  “I honestly have no idea.  If you get her to tell you, maybe you could clue me in.”

With that, I stomp over to my backdoor and slam my way into my silent, empty house.  I stop beside the telephone that has never rung and lean a shoulder against the wall nearby to glare at it… and also keep tabs on the camera crew through the living room window.

They’re unpacked, all right.  And it looks like they’re not going anywhere until they get some answers.  I can see Haymitch shrugging in response to whatever the Capitol interviewer is asking.  He rolls his eyes, gestures widely.  Maybe he’s reminding everyone that teenagers are equally stupid everywhere in Panem.

Let’s hope Snow buys it; Katniss and I are short-sighted, hormonal, harmless idiots.

As I wait for the phone to ring or a knock on the door, I start setting up the room I’d considered using for an art studio.  The window faces the south for maximum light.  I cover the bare mattress with a sheet of plastic and then a new linen sheet.  I lay out my paints, brushes, spatulas, and pallet.  I unpack the easel.  Unwrap a blank canvas and store the others in the empty closet.  Hm.  Looking pretty good.  I just need a chair or stool or something.

I reconnoiter the house for something I can use, pausing when I hear the sound of a door opening outside.  I don’t hear Katniss’ footsteps on her porch, of course, but I glimpse her though the living room window as she strides past on her way to meet Prim after school.  One cameraman trails after her.  I expect the other one to try to butt into my house within the next five minutes.

With a sigh, I try to sort out what I can say to pique their interest without backing Katniss into another corner.  I don’t want to force her to apologize to me for what was essentially my idea to begin with.

I’ve just decided to give the kitchen step ladder a try as a makeshift painter’s stool when I hear an odd chime.  Not like an oven timer… more like a… a… I don’t know.

A series of quick, sharp raps upon the front door clues me in.  Oh, my God.  The chime is a _doorbell._

The Capitol has finally come knocking.

Well, ready or not, it’s showtime.

 


	15. Reconciliation

 

Peeta's POV

 

_“Peeta, can you tell us what’s caused this sudden rift between you and Katniss?”_

_“’Rift’ is a strong word.”_

_“Peeta…?”_

_“What can I say?  I… She’s right.  I wasn’t thinking.”_

_“Then what were you doing to cause her to turn from you?”_

_“She hasn’t--  Look, I just got caught up in--  Imagine living with someone you’ve loved since as far back as you can remember and it’s like a dream come true and…”_

_“Is the dream over?”_

_“Of course not!  We just need to find balance.  I can’t and don’t expect Katniss to just…  I mean, there’s still so much we don’t know about each other.  We just need to slow down.  I pushed it too far, and I’m glad she pushed back.  It’s like I said -- it’s all about balance.”_

_“So, as far as you’re concerned, this isn’t the end?”_

_“What?  No!  Not at all.  This is just the beginning.  A thing like this… we’ll get through it.  Knowing how much the Capitol is rooting for us is… well, it’s really appreciated.”_

I don’t turn away from the living room window -- and my view of the lights glowing from the living room window of Katniss’ house -- as the recording of my interview wraps up.  I have zero interest in how I look on camera.  I’d thrown myself into every sentence, meaning every word.  I just hope Katniss is watching this and not taking it the wrong way.  I can’t help but remember her reaction to my confession to Caesar.  Not that I’d mind her pushing me up against a wall again.

A shiver starts between my shoulder blades, hot and tingling--

“Katniss,” a male voice begins, “why did you break up with Peeta?”

I whip around, watching wide-eyed as Katniss glares off into the distance, striding purposefully up the road toward the school.  The cameraman hovers, zooming in to capture her response.

“We didn’t break up.”

“He might disagree with that.”

“Then it’s up to him to tell me, isn’t it?”

“What does he have to do to win you back?”

I can practically hear her molars grinding together.  “We’ve both already won,” she insists.  “We have each other.  No matter what.”

No matter what.  Our code phrase -- the words meant for just the two of us -- that cuts through all the lies and exaggerations to bring me and Katniss back to common ground.  No matter what.  She still trusts me.  She’s still with me.  Together or apart.  Oh, thank God.

A shrill ringing cuts through the gloom.  I hadn’t bothered with the lights or with hiding my reaction to Katniss’ interview.  The cameraman hovering in my living room has caught it all, including my startle and eager lunge for the phone.

I fumble the receiver off of the hook.  “Hello?” I croak.

“Peeta.  It’s me.”

I lean forward until my forehead rests against the wall, grinning.  “Katniss… thank you for calling.”

“Well, you said I could.”

So I had.  “I’m glad.”  Clearing my throat, I hastily take the reins.  “It’s good to hear your voice.”

“You didn’t see my interview?”

“I did, but this is better.  I was about to call and…”

“And what?  Say you’re sorry?”

I chuckle at her incredulous tone.  “No, I thought I’d save that for in person.”

“Peeta…”

“But I wanted to tell you good night--”  My tone rises in question as I draw out the words.  “--I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Nine o’clock.  For your exercises.  Don’t be late, Mellark.”

My smile is so wide it hurts.  My chest clenches hard.  “I won’t dream of it, Everdeen.”

God, I hope we can both make it through one night apart.  At least she’s got her sister and her mother.  I’ll just… I dunno… throw some paint around, I guess.

Her “good night” sounds more like a puff of breath against my ear than actual words.  I murmur them back.  The line goes dead.

The cameraman stays another hour, tracking me as I try to look busy, buzzing question after question at me.  Some I don’t even bother to listen to and he has to call my name to get my attention.  When I finally admit that it’s be a long day and I’m exhausted, he leaves me in peace with surprisingly little resistance.  I guess they’ve got enough video to work with for the next chapter in the tale of District Twelve’s star-crossed lovers.

I consider making something for dinner, but everything in my kitchen requires too much effort to prepare.  Especially for only one person.  I change into an old T-shirt and threadbare slacks, something that could use a little color and paint splatter, and splash some water on my face.  I’m staring blanking at an empty canvas when a soft knock tumbles up the stairs.

I consider ignoring it, but really what else do I have going on right now?

A whole lot of nothing, that’s what.

With a sigh, I meander down to the first floor and follow the commotion.  It leads me to the kitchen door and--

“Mrs. Everdeen?”

“Good evening, Peeta.  May I come it?”

Bewildered, I look from her sympathetic expression to the tray of food in her hands.  “Um, of course.”

She sets the load down on the kitchen table with a shaky clatter.  “We were all sorry we missed you at dinner tonight.”

“I, um, missed you all, too.”

“Have a seat, dear.  Eat.”

I comply, expecting her to excuse herself and head back over to Katniss’ house, but she claims a chair for herself, folds her hands beneath her chin, and considers me with mild concern.  “Are you all right?”

I blink at her stupidly.  “I…  Sure.  What do you mean?”

“I mean, I know my daughter.  Just because you forgive her doesn’t necessarily mean you’re all right.”

Poking at the bowl of stew, I mutter, “I was an active participant in our argument earlier.”

“So long as Katniss is an active participant in apologizing…”

My hand tightens around the spoon in my grasp.  “We’re partners, Mrs. Everdeen.  Just because we have different strengths, that doesn’t mean we’re not equally invested in… this.”

She nods.  “I’m glad the two of you are giving the issue some distance.  Things often look different in the morning.”

“That they do.”

I work my way through the hearty stew, absently noting that a slice of sesame seed bread would have been nice with it but I’m not about to whip up a loaf just for myself.  When I’m done, I take my dishes to the sink and open the tap.

“You needn’t do the washing up,” Mrs. Everdeen interrupts.

“I’m not going to send you home tonight with dirty dishes,” I retort.

“That’s good to hear,” she replies, “as I wasn’t planning on leaving tonight anyway.”

“You… what?”  I turn around and frown at her.  “Not that I don’t appreciate your company and everything you’ve done for me, ma’am, but Katniss might need you later.”

“She has Prim.  They haven’t had much private time since… before all this.”

“Um, right.”  Well.  Now what?  “I’ll, uh, make up one of the guest rooms for you.”

“Thank you, Peeta.”

I decide I might as well get right on that since I have no idea when Katniss’ mother would prefer to go to sleep.  I put her in the room farthest from mine so that I won’t wake her up if I get too loud or end up needing to walk off a little anxiety.  She passes me a bottle of sleep syrup that I know I won’t take, but I thank her anyway.  And then I retrieve a bucket from the bathroom closet and tuck it next to my bed.  Just in case I don’t make it to the toilet in time.

My studio is through the adjoining bathroom from my bedroom and though I try to paint, I can’t.  I don’t want to.  I don’t want the things I see in my head to find their way into the real world.  I don’t want to admit they’re real at all -- the bloodbath at the Cornucopia, the bindings around my wrists and the gag chapping my mouth raw, the sword blade embedded in my leg, the fever by the river, the pain in the cave, the sound of the cannon, the blood on Katniss’ face when she’d returned from the feast, the muttations, the tourniquet…

I squeeze my eyes shut against it all.  God.  I’d never realized how much Katniss’ steady presence distracts me from the horror and pain.

Grabbing a paint mixing spatula and tubes of white and black paint, I endeavor to paint Katniss.  Perhaps if I can have some part of her with me, it’ll be enough.

But her hair becomes a stormy sky and, before I know it, I’m staring at the Cornucopia.  Cato’s photo projected on the clouds.  The dark lumpy shapes of muttations clustered around his body.  The hint of two figures squeezed into a sleeping bag just out of range, trying not to listen to his whimpers and pleas, trying not to hear the snarls and snapping jaws, trying… just trying to make it through the night.

I can’t do this.

My hands fist in my hair and I try to focus on the floor between my feet.  A tile floor.  Like the one in the bathroom.  Wait, I am in the bathroom.  When had I moved from the studio to here?  I can’t even remember.

Shit, I’m a mess.  Maybe sleep syrup wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

Maybe the nightmares would be easier than stark, cold memory.

I collapse on my bed without bothering to pull back the blankets.  The window is open, but there’s not much of a breeze.  I leave my prosthetic leg on.  The bucket is nearby.  The sleep syrup remains untouched.

I stare up at the ceiling and hope Katniss is all right.  I hope having Prim beside her is enough…

“Shhh, it’s all right.”

I jerk upright, gasping for breath as I dodge the gleaming blade and Gale’s sadistic grin and I promise -- I swear -- all I want is to free Katniss from the snare before it’s too late!

“Peeta, it’s all right.”

“What?  Wha--oh.”  Biting my lip, I draw in a deliberate lungful of air.  Hold it.  Let go.  “Sorry I woke you, Mrs. Everdeen.”

“You didn’t.  I was looking in on you.”

“Um.  Oh,” I manage, confused as to why she would want to in the first place.  I startle when she brushes the hair back from my forehead.  My heart pounds at the maternal gesture.  What is this?  “Am I still dreaming?”

“No, you’re awake.”

“Okay.”  I still think it’s weird for her to be here, sitting on the edge of my bed, looking at me like she gives a damn.  “What time is it?”

“A little after eleven.”

Oh, wonderful.  Only ten more hours to go before I get to see Katniss again.  I can feel my jaw clench and that clues me into the fact that I’m still tense, leaning up on my elbows and panting softly.

“I don’t mean to keep you,” I tell Katniss’ mother.  “I’m all right now.”

“I doubt that,” she replies wryly, “but you are stubborn.  Just like Katniss.”

“Yeah?”

“Hmm,” she confirms.  “There was this one time -- she must have been about six years old -- when she decided she was going to catch a falling star.”

I feel a half-smile curl my lips.

Mrs. Everdeen continues, “She snuck out of the house after bedtime and gave us a quite fright when we looked in on her before getting some sleep ourselves.”

“I’m guessing not much sleep happened.”

“You guess correctly.  Her father and I were frantic.  It felt like hours, but it wasn’t even midnight when we found her at the meadow, gazing up at the sky, twirling around and around with her arms outstretched.”

I snort, picturing it.  “I guess she got tired of waiting for a star to fall and decided to give them a nudge?  Spin them right out of the sky?”

Mrs. Everdeen laughs.  “Yes.  That was exactly what she was trying to do.  She said, ‘If I just spin fast enough, one of them will bump the other and it’ll fall right to me, Mama.’”

I glance toward the open window and Katniss’ house beyond, suddenly wistful for that little girl that I’d never taken the chance to get to know.  “I wish I’d been there,” I hear myself mumble.  “With the both of us spinning, we definitely could’ve gotten that star.”

“Her father gave it a try with her, but stars are stubborn.  They don’t fall for little girls who sneak out of their beds at night and scare their mama and papa half to death.”

“Lesson learned.  That’s A+ parenting, Mrs. Everdeen.”

“I couldn’t have done it alone.”  She pauses and then admits, “I didn’t do it alone.  And after losing… I didn’t do it at all.  I wasn’t there for her when she needed me.”  Her small hand pats my shoulder.  “I’m glad she has you.”

“She has Prim and Gale, her cousin.”

Mrs. Everdeen nods.  “But she had you first.  The bread.  Thank you for that.  It really did save us.”

“I’m sorry it couldn’t do more.”  Like heal.  I wish that bread had been able to heal their family, bring them together.

“If it had, do you think Katniss still would have returned home?”

I pause and think about it.  If Katniss hadn’t had to support her family by poaching from such a young age, would she have managed the shot that had saved me and doomed Cato?

My mouth opens and I draw a breath to ask if Mrs. Everdeen believes that everything happens for a reason, but I quickly bite back the words.  How can I ask a that of a woman who lost both her husband and her will to go on?

“Be good to each other,” she advises softly.

I nod.  She stands and heads for the door.

“Try to get some sleep.”

I nod again, my throat tight for no reason at all.

She leaves the bedroom door open.  I roll my head toward the open window.  I can’t see any stars from this angle and when my vision goes blurry with tears I tell myself it’s just because I’m tired.  It’s got nothing to do with the fact that Katniss and I could have been like two peas in a pod once upon a time.  If my six-year-old self had known about falling stars, he would have been out there in the meadow right alongside her, spinning and twirling to knock one down.

Eventually, I fall asleep.  I know this because a hand on my shoulder shakes me out of the mines and away from the muttations.  I’d tried to save Katniss’ dad, I really had, but President Snow had taken my leg away and Mr. Everdeen had leaped between me and the monsters and I’d watched in horror as the blood--

I scramble for the bucket and heave into it.

Mrs. Everdeen fetches a cool cloth and wipes my face and brow.  The sweat cools in my hair, making it itchy, and I can’t stop the tears.  I bury my face in the pillow and try to breathe.  Or suffocate.  I’m honestly not sure which.

She rubs my shoulders until I’m determinedly sniffling in an effort to keep the snot in my head where it belongs.

It’s still dark outside, but I ask, “What time is it?”

“Almost two.”

Damn it.  My hands fist along the edge of the pillow.  “I’m sorry for this,” I tell her.

“I am, too.”  I stiffen, belatedly hearing her elaborate, “No one should be asked to endure what you and Katniss have.”

“It’s not so bad when we’re together,” I confess, jerking like an electric current had just passed through me when I realize what I’d just said and to whom I’d said it.  I brace myself for the whiplash.

“Then perhaps the two of you should make a point of avoiding lost tempers and slamming doors.”

“Noted.  Thank you, Mrs. Everdeen.”

She empties the bucket despite my protest that I’m fully capable of operating a water tap and flushing a toilet.  I open my eyes drowsily when she sets it back down beside the bed and tucks the blankets around my shoulders.

“Sweet dreams this time, Peeta.”

“I’ll do my best.”

I keep my eyes open for as long as I can, striving for a happy moment to accompany me to sleep.  I’m still kind of stunned that Mrs. Everdeen brought me dinner.  Is that what moms are supposed to do?

I ask Bobry and he assures me it is.  Good parents do that kind of thing.  Good people, too.  I want to be good, so I offer to let him have first dibs on my meal ration.  He eats.  He grabs for his throat.  His mouth fills with foam and his eyes roll back into his skull and the cannon goes off--

This time, I wake alone, heart pounding in the darkness.  I no longer care what time it is.  It’s never too early to bake some damn bread.  

Mrs. Everdeen finds me in the kitchen one batch past dawn.

She offers to make tea.  When I pull the last two loaves out of the oven, she gazes at them as if they hold the secrets to the universe or perhaps the meaning of life.  Maybe they do.  This is the same bread I’d burnt for Katniss years ago.

“I promise this time it’ll taste better,” I attempt to joke.

She turns away and wipes at her eyes.

I brace myself over the sink and lower my head, stretching my neck and aching shoulders and wish I could just get it the hell together already.

A visitor at the front door saves us from further awkwardness.  She hurries to answer it and I absently wash up.  The murmur of voices coast past my awareness; I have no intention of tuning in to what’s going on until I have to.  Mrs. Everdeen will call for me if she needs anything and I just need a moment.

Approaching footsteps startle me.  That gait -- I know that gait.

“Good morning, son.”

I look over my shoulder.  “Dad.”

He stands on the threshold of the kitchen, rocking back and forth on his heels, hands in his pockets.

“What day is it?”  Duff and Bax must be manning the kitchen in the shop.

Mrs. Everdeen collects the tray and my dirty dishes from the night before.  As she moves toward the kitchen door, I lunge for one of the loaves, wrapping it up in a clean kitchen towel and telling her, “For breakfast today.  I’ll see Katniss at nine, after she’s walked Prim to school.”

Mrs. Everdeen nods, glances toward my dad, and then I lean over to hold open the door.  Although the action lets out a sizable puff of oven-heated air, it feels like the temperature in the room drops to freezing.  My dad and Katniss’ mom and the secret he’d told me about wanting to marry her once upon a time.

Shit.

I guess it’s no wonder my mother didn’t exactly welcome me home with open arms.

“Look,” I say before he can even answer my question about the day of the week, “if you stopped by to tell my why Mom’s pissed at me, don’t.  I get it, okay?”

He sighs.  “May I sit down?”

“Uh, sure.”  I gesture toward the table, marveling that he’d even asked.  I mean, I guess it is my house and all, but still.  He’s my _dad._   Since when does a parent ask for permission from their child?

“Peeta… can we talk?”

Wow.  A question that answers my previous question.  “What’s wrong?”  God, do I feel old all of a sudden.

He sighs.  Shakes his head.  “How’s your back?”

“Better.”

He rolls his lips inward.  Like he always does when he has no idea what to say.  Well, at least this isn’t awkward or anything.

“Is that why you’re here?  Checking up on me?”

He hums.  “While I still can.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“All my sons are grown men now.  It happened so fast.”

“And you were hoping for more time to do what?  Put cold compresses on our bruises.”  But, when I say “our bruises” I mostly mean mine.  Somehow I always collected more than either Bax or Duff.

My dad winces.  “Yeah, about that--”

“Let’s not.”  My molars grind together as I glance toward the nearest window.  It’s the closest I’ll ever get to escaping the truth.  The truth that nobody but me could have done anything to make Mom happy with me -- and it would have cost me everything that I am to manage it.  I look at Bax and Duff and, even though I love them both, I’d rather die than turn out like them.  I say, “It’s done.  Whatever is past, is past.”  And it can rot there.

“All right,” he answers and I feel my shoulders relax.  He’d been telling me the truth: he really does consider me a grown man now and he’ll honor it if I tell him I don’t want to talk about something.

Is it weird if I say that this makes me respect him more than I ever have before?  If he couldn’t be my dad-- if he couldn’t protect me when I was growing up -- maybe we can each mind our own business and be friends as adults.

“What else you got going on here?” he asks with a nod toward the counter and the ingredients still assembled for use.

“Nothing yet.  Any suggestions?”

We bake until eight thirty and then he gets going.  I see him out and then head for the downstairs bathroom to get cleaned up.  To be honest, I’m not really sure what to make of his visit but… I think I’m happy.  I’m happy he stopped by.  I’m happy he made an effort.

I’m up to my elbows in soap suds when I hear a soft, rapid tapping on the window.  Like a bird pecking at the glass.

It’s not a bird.

I hastily rinse and grab a towel, opening the window with still-dripping hands.

“Katniss!” I hiss.  “What’re you--”

“Can I come in?”

“Er, yeah.  I have two doors, you know.”  That doesn’t stop me from holding the curtains aside as she boosts herself up to the sill.

“Cameras,” she grunts, squiggling up until her hips are balanced on the edge of the window.  At this point I wrap and arm around her shoulder and she takes my other hand.  I pull and she kicks her way in--

“Oomph!” I wince.  It turns out that bathroom tile floor is not the softest thing to land on.

“Sorry,” Katniss breathes from where she’s sprawled on top of me.

I chuckle, my hand cupping her shoulders and inviting her to, you know, take off her shoes and stay a while… if you know what I mean.  “No, no.  You’re perfect.  Don’t be sorry on my account.”

She relaxes, her entire body molding to mine and, yup, this would be the best morning ever.

“No, I mean, I’m sorry about yesterday.”

“Don’t be sorry if you meant it.”  She’s very quiet.  Her gaze shifts away.  She chews the inside of her cheek.

Well, shit.

“So you did mean it,” I conclude.

She shakes her head.  Not a me, exactly, but at whatever’s going on inside her head.  “It’s just… It was Prim and me for so long and now my mom is… and you’re… and--ugh!”

I decide now’s a good time to rub her back.  “Change.  I get it, Katniss.  I really do.  And if you want more space with your sister, then of course you’ll get it.  Take it whenever you need it.  It’s fine.”  It really is.

Katniss’ hand fists in my T-shirt.  “I had time with her last night and--”  She huffs, exasperated and exhausted.  “And it wasn’t what I--aarghh”  She growls softly and my pulse spikes.  Damn.  I’d had no idea she could make that sound.  That wild, fiesty, hot sound.  She looks up into my eyes just as the equipment I keep in my pants starts to activate.

Whew.  She has awesome timing.

“I missed you,” she confesses.

I grin.  “I missed you, too.  A lot.”

“We’re better together.”

I nod.

“Come eat breakfast with us?”  Her lashes lower as I cup her cheek.  The shadows under her eyes draw my fingertips like magnets and I have to see if I can wish them away with a touch.  I have to try.

Her lips curve into a barely-there smile.  “And after breakfast, maybe a nap?”

With a marveling shake of my head, I comply.  “You’ll get no arguments from me.”

Breakfast, a long nap, and “afternoon” exercises.  Our routine today may be shot to hell, but Katniss and I are okay.

I can live with that.

 


	16. Hold On

 

**Peeta's POV**

 

We make up on my back porch.  The cameras are rolling as I wrap my arms around Katniss and she clutches my shoulders hard and it was better on the bathroom floor, yeah, but I’m not going to turn this moment down.  Not for anything.

She runs her fingers through my hair.  I kiss her forehead.  The world is right again.

And the cameras stay, hoping for another moment of drama to broadcast to all of Panem.

The livestock arrives six days later and Katniss and I show up just to make sure the cameras do, too.  Everything looks on the up-and-up and city hall has everything under control.  Seam folk hand over their claim forms, endure the pinprick of the identification process, and take their new charges home.

Pigs, goats, chickens.  It’s not much, but it’s something.

As Katniss and I stroll through town, hand in hand, I remark about what a shame it is that the District Twelve library is in such sorry shape.  “It would have been a great place for a date,” I lament.

Katniss smiles and plays along.  “Yeah.  I’d read to you.”

“You think I can’t read?” I tease, beaming.

“I think,” she drawls, “you’d rather sketch something.”

“Someone.”

She harrumphs; I’ve proven her point.

Not a week later, there’s a construction crew crawling all over the library.  Renovations are under way thanks to generous donations from our fans in the Capitol.

Holy crap do those self-important jackasses love us.

We have a date at the library.  Mister Anglesmith glares at the hovering camera crew the entire time.

Katniss makes an offhanded comment about the playground needing swings — “I remember giving Prim a boost, pushing her so high she squealed.  That was a long time ago.” — and suddenly a new playground springs up out of the rusty ruins of the old.  We take Prim there to play.  Duff joins us.  The camera crews orbit like hungry mosquitoes.

“Today was a fun day,” I remark, dropping my toothbrush back in its holder.

Katniss spits in the sink and rinses her mouth.  She glares at her own toothbrush as she shoves it next to mine.  “It’s only a stupid playground.  It doesn’t fill empty bellies.”

“No, it doesn’t.”  Leaning a hip against the counter, I reach out for her elbow and I’m a little surprised that she doesn’t ignore the comforting gesture and just stomp into the bedroom.  “But seeing something like that — and hearing kids laughing — it gives hope.  Hope that things will get better.  And that’s a reason to hold on.  Even if it’s just for one more day.  I don’t think that’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” she agrees and looks me right in the eye.  “I wish there were more people like you.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to make a joke: if she said that in front of the cameras, a whole herd of Peeta-clones might pour off the next train and swarm Twelve.  Instead, I decide to be selfish and ask, “So, I manage to do something right every now and again?”

She rolls her eyes and mirrors me, leaning against the bathroom counter, facing me.  “Peeta, the only wrong move I’ve seen you make was harvesting nightlock berries.”

“And you saved me from my own dumb self.”

“And I’d do it again.”

Her hand touches my cheek and it’s like an electric shock.  I jerk, startle.  Stupid, stupid, stupid—!

“Stop,” she breathes, and moves closer, so close.  Oh, God.  Her mouth is just a moment away from mine and there are no cameras and—

“Is this really happening?”

She doesn’t pause, but she does seem to be considering my question carefully.

And she answers: “Yes.”

And then she kisses me.  Just a soft, chaste press of lips and oh my God this is much better than back in the cave when I’d been half out of my mind with pain and fever.

But I’m feeling plenty warm right now.

I kiss her back.  I don’t mean to chase after her lips as she pulls away, but every cell in my body is fighting to keep this contact.  I need it.  Here, at her lips, I’ve found survival itself.

Her hand slides down my jaw and then both hot palms are flat against my chest.  Pushing.

Refusing.

Oh, shit.

I tear myself away, almost overbalancing and falling into the toilet, but she clutches my arms until I right myself.

Well.  How smooth am I, huh?

I almost apologize.  I almost apologize for all of it… but I’m not the least bit sorry.

No lies.  We’d promised.

I joke, “Would you still save me a second time?”

“And a third.”  Her lopsided smile is probably the best thing I’ve ever seen in this room.  Probably.  Nothing else comes to mind at the moment, anyway.

“I might take you up on that someday.”

She can tell I’m only half-joking, because her grip on my arms tighten.  “I won’t mind.”

The cameras hover for five more days and then Katniss and I bid them farewell at the train station, our arms around each other on the platform.

“Come visit us again soon!” I call out just as the door whooshes shut.

As the train pulls away, neither Katniss nor I release our grip.  Our shield — our only weapon against President Snow — has just abandoned us.  My arms tighten around Katniss.  Her hands fist in the back of my shirt.

We don’t sleep well that night.  Both of us lie awake, stare into the dark, and just hold on.

The next night at dinner, Prim suddenly asks, “How come we haven’t invited anyone over?”

“Who do you want to invite over?” Katniss replies.

I think of the girls in Prim’s grade — the ones she’s always in a hurry to say good-morning to at school, so I’m a little surprised when she says, “Rory.  Gale.  You know.”

I order myself not to look up from my plate.   _Don’t do it, Peet.  Don’t look her in the eye.  Just let it blow over._

Good advice.  So of course I don’t follow it.  I find myself caught up in her grey gaze.

“Not yet,” Katniss replies in a disinterested tone.

“Why not?”

For a long moment, Katniss doesn’t answer.  She chews on the inside of her cheek.  Looks up at me.  I don’t have to ask what she’s thinking.  I already know.

The cameras are long gone, but they’d undoubtedly followed us through the rain and into the Seam when we had accepted Hazelle Hawthorne’s invitation to dinner.  So, clearly, the whole damn Capitol knows that the Hawthornes exist.  As far as I can tell, the only reason the camera crew hadn’t hounded them was because Seam styles aren’t in fashion.

Harsh, but probably true.

God knows the reporters had leaped at the chance to sling questions at my brothers when they’d stopped by next door for a visit.  My heart had raced with apprehension the first time I’d seen Duff blush and mutter his way through an impromptu interview.  Katniss had reached for my hand, understanding my fear.  And though I’d been unsurprised to see Baxter posing and puffed up as he’d run his fat, stupid mouth in a Capitol broadcast only two days after that, my mouth had still gone dry.

The last thing I want is for President Snow to threaten my family, but it’s a little too late to be worrying about putting them in the line of fire; simply by being related to me, they’re in danger.  They always will be.  But where the president had threatened Prim, I doubt he’d take the time to bother voicing threats against my dad or mom or brothers.  There will be no warning if I screw up.  Just a body or two.

I think of Vick and little Posy.

And I know Katniss is thinking of them, too.  The same way I am.

But isn’t it too late to exclude them from her life?  At this point, pushing them away is only going to make us look smarter than we’re supposed to be.  At least to President Snow, who undoubtedly has every Peacekeeper in Twelve filing reports on our activities.

Besides, how long has it been since Katniss has been able to talk to her _cousin_  Gale?

“Don’t you miss him?” Prim pesters and Katniss shrugs as if she doesn’t.  As if she hasn’t thought about him at all.  But I know her.  She has.  Definitely.  I’d hope that she’d think about me if we hadn’t seen each other in weeks or days.

Hours.

“It’d be nice to see the Hawthornes again,” I volunteer with a smile.

Katniss blinks at me and I tilt my brows.  Rather than accuse or snap or scowl, she says, “Yeah.  We’ll see.”

That’s how I know it’s going to happen: she hadn’t said “no” and Katniss is not shy about telling people to go to hell.

I consider coming up with some limericks ahead of time.  Maybe I can make Katniss laugh again.  Hawthorne hadn’t liked that much, but I sure had.

When Duff stops by on Thursday morning, he hands me a single sheet of cardstock before shouldering past me.

“Yes!” I enthuse through a toothy smile, devouring the sloppily written recipe for Lark Cheese Buns.  “Which notes were in Dad’s handwriting?” I demand, pointing to the scribbles in the margins that Duff had dutifully copied down.

It takes a full afternoon of experimenting with spices and alternative flavorings before I think I’ve managed to not only do them justice but also add a little something extra, something special.  The secret ingredient, interestingly enough, turns out to be honey.

“Try this,” I say, shoving a cheese bun in Katniss’ face.

She flinches a bit, but doesn’t stop stirring the stew on the stove.  I hold the bread steady as she reaches up and pulls a corner off before popping it into her mouth.  I swear her eyes actually roll up into her skull.

“Oh, God.  Peeta.”

I clench my jaw and fight the ripple of pleasure that rolls through my entire body.  Oh, shit.  Her tone, low and gravely, destroys me.  She licks her lips, chasing the flavor, and my knees just about turn to water.

“Good?” I rasp.

“Hmm…” she agrees.  “What’s that flavor?”

“It’s a secret.  But I’ll tell you if you guess it.”  I wave the slightly dissected cheese bun in her direction. Inviting her to give it another try.

Her nimble fingers rip off a second helping.  This time, as she savors it, I watch her lips move, her throat work, her eyelids droop with sensual satiation.  “This is amazing.”

It’s just a flavored roll, but I feel like _I’m_ amazing.  “There’s more where that came from,” I tempt her.

I grin at the narrow-eyed glare she sends me.  She’s right to be suspicious.  My thoughts are not very gentlemanly today.  I rein myself in with a monumental effort.

Even Katniss can’t eat through an entire batch of cheese buns alone, not even with her mother and sister helping, so I send the rest to school with Prim the next day.  She can share them with her friends at lunchtime.

“Thank you, Peeta!” Prim hollers back, clutching the paper bag of rolls as she skips in the direction of her schoolmates.

I wave back, feeling guilty.  I’d made those buns for Katniss, but as the youngest in my family, I know what it’s like to be glad for leftovers.  I decide not to say anything.  The world needs more smiles like Prim’s.  In fact, there’s not much I wouldn’t do to see one light up Katniss’ face.  Including step aside and let her greet Gale Hawthorne with a wide grin and luminous eyes.

“Gale!” she breathes enthusiastically.  He’s the first one across the threshold.

I study my double-knotted shoelaces as Hawthorne bends down and scoops her toward him with arms that are leaner than mine.

Mrs. Everdeen maneuvers around Katniss and her _cousin_  to welcome the rest of the Hawthornes inside.  I shake hands with Rory and Vick.  I bow to Posy, winning a giggle from her.  When I clasp Hazelle’s hand, I do so in both of mine, my heart aching for her dry, callused skin.  Wash-work is hard; here is the proof.  But her smile is genuine and that provides some comfort in the face of how devastatingly unfair life is for so many people in Twelve.

It becomes clear almost immediately that Katniss and Gale have a lot of catching up to do.  Rory wastes no time installing himself beside Prim.  Gale’s mother and Katniss’ head for the stove to finish up with dinner preparations.  I remind myself that there aren’t any cameras in here, just two pairs of wide, grey eyes.  “Vick, Posy,” I begin with a friendly smile, “I’ve got a big job for you.”

Vick looks wary.  Posy looks excited.

I wave a hand toward the counter, on which I’ve laid out three dozen depressingly plain gingerbread boys and girls, the results of an afternoon spent battling frustration and resignation in turns.  “These cookies are in need of some serious frosting.”

Vick tries to look uninterested, but I can tell he’s never done anything like this before and he’s curious.  Posy is beside herself with glee.  We don’t finish before dinner is ready.  In fact, I’ve only just shown them how to draw on the smiling faces when we’re called to the table.

“The livestock,” Gale says once we’re well into our first dozen mouthfuls of rabbit stew.  “Way to go, Catnip.”

Katniss shifts, twirls her spoon.  Her gaze flicks in my direction.  “It was Peeta’s idea.  He even argued for an earlier delivery.”

When Gale looks up in my direction, I wish Katniss hadn’t said anything.  I don’t like the gleam in his eye.  I recognize it from the days when Katniss would refuse to accept a favor, when she was suspicious of every gesture of friendship.  I’d thought I was done dealing with that wary, angry silence.

I’m driven to downplay my contribution.  “It was all Katniss’ suggestion.  I don’t know a thing about business.”

And now neither Katniss nor Gale seem to know what to say.  Great.  I should have just kept my mouth shut.

Hazelle fills the awkward silence by describing how the shipment of animals have settled in to the neighborhood.  She even praises the rating system that all the applicants had gone through to determine level of need and which animals they’d be equipped to take on.  The Hawthornes themselves had ended up with four hens.

Katniss doesn’t say anything about the money she and I had donated to the cause.  I can’t imagine Hawthorne would be all that happy to hear about it.

It’s a relief when dinner is over.  Prim and Rory offer to do the dishes.  Mrs. Everdeen starts a pot of tea.  I call my cookie frosters back to the counter to finish instructing them on how to add hair and clothes to the gingerbread people.  Through the kitchen window, I can see Katniss and Gale sitting side-by-side on the back steps of the porch.

Sometimes their elbows bump.

I force myself to look away and focus on what I do best: decorate pastries.

Rory’s cookies look like his mother, brothers, and sister.  Posy gives one gingerbread boy blue hair and pink shorts and a gingerbread girl orange pigtails and a purple apron.  I’m glad I took the time to mix up all the different colors of frosting for them.  We have tea and cookies.  Katniss and Gale stay outside.

When Hazelle declares it’s time for them to head home and Katniss comes in to give Posy a hug, I stop Gale on the threshold by holding out a sack of cookies.

“Vick and Posy did a good job with these,” I tell him, looking him in the eye.

He’s irritated that he can’t throw them back in my face.  If he did, he’d hurt his brother and sister’s feelings.  I can’t help feeling like I’ve won a small victory.  I’m sure he’ll do his best to make sure I pay for it later, but for now I enjoy it.

I turn away on the pretense of dealing with the gooey pastry bags.  Prim jogs up to Gale to give him a hug goodbye, unwittingly aiding my strategic retreat.

I wave goodbye to Posy through the kitchen window as I fill the sink with water.  I’d better deal with this frosting before it dries out and turns into glue.

“Need a hand?”

I startle at the sound of Katniss’ voice.  She’d snuck up behind me.  I can feel the heat of her against the back of my elbow and arm.  “Uh, no.  It’s fine.  These’ll dry overnight.”  I gesture to the canvas bags and metal nozzles.

She hesitates.  “Um, thank you.  For showing Vick and Posy how to decorate cookies.  They had a really good time.  I could tell.”

“They’re good kids.  It was fun.”  I shrug.  I can feel her scowling at me.  When she doesn’t move away, I know she knows something’s wrong.

Her warm hand moves to my arm.  I grit my teeth.  Every muscle in my torso tenses.  I don’t think I could move if I tried.  Or wanted to.

“What?” she insists.

My mouth falls open, but I don’t have any words to offer.  What would I say?  That I’m sorry Gale Hawthorne doesn’t like me?  That he thinks I’m condescending, over-privileged Merchant spawn who is taking advantage of Katniss?

That last thought makes me snort with incredulity.  As if anyone could take advantage of Katniss Everdeen.

But, when I turn the situation around that look at it from Gale’s point of view, that’s exactly what I’m doing.  I set this whole thing in motion in my interview with Caesar, and now I live in her house.  She helps me bake and cook and go through my exercise routine daily.  We sleep in the same bed.

“Peeta.”  She gives my arm a bit of a shake.

I tell her, “I’m sorry.”  She stares at me until I elaborate.  “I know you miss spending time with him.”

“He and his family are safer this way,” she volunteers.

We can only hope.

“He’s going to work in the mines in two weeks,” she adds and I feel especially wretched.  I know how much she’ll worry about him, how hard he’ll have to work to feed his family, how little time he’ll have to hunt.  When will she be able to see him next?

“You should invite them over again next week.”

I can feel it when her stare refocuses on me.

I explain, “He’ll be pretty busy once he starts drawing shifts.”  When she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even remove her hand from my arm, I look over at her, daring to meet her gaze.  “What?”

“I didn’t think you…”

“What?” I prompt again.  I pivot – gravitate – toward her.

“You two don’t get along.”

I shrug yet again.  “He doesn’t have any reason to like Townies.”  That’s what I am, isn’t it?

Katniss doesn’t answer.

“Don’t worry about it.”  A thought occurs to me.  “I can make plans with Duff and Bax next time if—”

“No.”  She drops her hand and takes a step back.  “Um, unless you want to.”

I search her expression.  In the end, I don’t dare make assumptions about what she’s thinking.  “I just want to give you a choice.”

She bites the inside of her cheek.

I don’t know what to do.  As the silence stretches out, growing more and more taut, I comb my thoughts for something – anything…!

“Did you get a cookie?” I blurt.

Her sputter erupts into a brief laugh.  My smile is fueled by relief.

“I saved you some.”  Drying off my hands, I fetch the plate of remaining cookies from the now-cool oven.  “These haven’t been frosted yet…” I begin.  “Would you like to try?”  I fumble for the fullest pastry bag.

Katniss blinks at me as I demonstrate how to squeeze the slack in the bag to force out the frosting.  “There!” I announce, beaming at the monochrome gingerbread boy.  The only frosting color I have left is white.  I thrust the bag into Katniss’ hands.  “Have at it,” I say with a nod as I return to the dishwater and the decorator’s bags I have to rinse out.

She scowls a bit as she carefully dabs a pair of eyes onto a gingerbread girl.  Then the nose.  Finally, the mouth.  “Looks like Prim,” I enthuse, earning a self-conscious snort from her.  “Here.”  I leave the canvas bags to soak and dry off my hands again.  Our fingers brush when Katniss relinquishes the frosting to me.  Smirking, I doodle a sarcastic eye-roll onto one gingerboy and a glower onto a gingergirl.

“I’ll give you three guesses as to who they are.”

“Peeta…”  I know it’s supposed to be a warning, but her lips are twitching.

Prim skips into the kitchen.  She looks like a girl on the quest for cookies.  When she glances down at the plate of partially frosted gingerbread people, she slaps her hands over her mouth and giggles… which makes Katniss huff out a chuckle… which makes me smile so wide my cheeks hurt.

I return to the mess in the sink as Prim starts describing the kind of clothes cookie Haymitch, cookie Katniss, and cookie Prim ought to be wearing.  Katniss rolls her eyes, picks up the pastry bag, and does her best.  In the end, though, Prim insists that I draw Katniss’ braid and, when I finish off the tail with a flourish, I look up in time to catch Katniss’ amused expression.

Prim takes the plate away to go show her mother and I reach for the end of Katniss’ braid where it has fallen over her shoulder.  I don’t tug on the end; I just rub the strands gently between my fingers.  It feels deceptively strong, these dark strands, but I know how fragile she is.  How fragile we both are.

We’re not unlike those gingerbread cookies.

But the longer we manage to struggle on, the tougher we’re bound to become.  I can’t help but feel that we’ll need that strength.  And soon.

Snow won’t be satisfied with our little show.  Not if we continue to be the darlings of the Capitol.  He’ll make us pay for any success we manage.  The only question is how.

“Peeta,” Katniss breathes and startle.  

“Sorry.”  I can feel myself flush hotly, caught staring blankly as I fondle her hair.  My fingers twitch, but her hand covers mine before the end of her braid can slip from my grasp.

“Don’t,” she says and her grip tightens.  Tightens my fingers around that dark braid.  “Don’t let go.”

It’s not a request.  Katniss does not – generally – bother with requests.  Why would she when every life lesson has taught her that human mercy is harder to come by than a diamond would be in a lump of coal?  No, she knows there’s no room for requests in Twelve.  

_Don’t let go._ It’s an order.

I swallow thickly.  “Okay.”

“Okay,” she agrees.

We’re in this together: me, her, and the nightmares.  I know I should be afraid of what’s coming, but I’ve got Katniss Everdeen on my side.   _At_  my side.  And if that’s not enough to get us all through, then I don’t want to think about it.  I can’t think about it.  I won’t.

She searches my face and nods in satisfaction at what she sees.  It’s such a small gesture, but I’ve never needed anything more in my life.

“I won’t let you down,” I promise her.

She gives me a rare smile in exchange.  “Peeta.  You never have.”

And I never will.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's as far as this fic goes. Maybe you think it's weird that the kiss didn't happen at the end... To be honest, that kiss was a last-minute addition to this fic (so it almost never happened at all). I'm kind of hoping that while the kiss is nice, the end of the chapter is where Peeta and Katniss have one of their strongest, most unifying moments.
> 
> To answer a couple questions about things that are hinted at but neither Peeta nor Katniss get a straight answer on:  
> \+ Yes, Haymitch and Undersee are conspiring against the Capitol. Haymitch warns Peeta and Katniss to be careful who they trust because the rebellion plans to use them as a rallying point. He's trying to get them to be more guarded so they're not blindsided by this in the future. He really does care, y'know? I think he's trying to be realistic and as far as he can tell, there's no stopping this train wreck from happening.  
> \+ Also, the stuff Haymitch doesn't want to tell Peeta (when Haymitch asks, "Really, how much do you need to know, kid?") is the whole "selling of victors" racket.  
> \+ While the arrival of livestock seems like a good thing, most of the animals turn out to be old or sterile, so the people of Twelve are pretty much right back to where they started before the 74th Hunger Games. The only books in the library are Capitol-approved. Maybe the playground is a genuinely good thing, but still. Peeta's right to suspect that President Snow will negate every success they seem to make.
> 
> I can imagine "Catching Fire" and "Mockingjay" events unfolding differently... but I can also imagine that a lot stays the same (at least from the Victory Tour onward). So, hopefully you can picture how this fanfic might tie-in?? I dunno. As I said, this is utterly plotless and an excuse to splash around in gratuitous Everlark feels. (^_~)


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